


Kryptic

by author_morgan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: Battle Couple, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Redemption, Sex, Stylized bloody battles, grumpy boy needs to be hugged, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 63,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction. They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.
Relationships: Alexios (Assassin's Creed)/Original Female Character(s), Deimos (Assassin's Creed)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 126
Kudos: 125





	1. An Offering of Flesh

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

-Homer, _The Odyssey_

__

* * *

MEN WEARING IVORY masks carved into terrible expressions file into the villa’s courtyard. Leandros, son of Kalliades, faces a momentous decision –the wrong choice will cost him his position as a _thesmothetai_ and his life. One of the masked men inspects the coffer brimming with coins and jewels. This much is commonplace. Payment to these men keeps Leandros in power and his family comfortable.

The man who had looked over the coin rises. “Tribute alone is no longer enough to satiate the Cult,” a discordant voice announces. Dark eyes peer through the mask, looking past Leandros to his wife —Kalanthe— and his children. “We demand an offering of flesh if you are to remain an _archon_ of Athens.”

Leandros skims over his four children –only three are from his loins, and they are all sons. His gaze falls upon Lesya –a scrawny girl for her age, who is ugly and too pale. Finding a suitable match and providing a dowry large enough for anyone to desire her will be a burden, as most daughters are. He had made his choice long before the Cult ever petitioned for more than just riches. Kalanthe grips onto her daughter’s shoulder, tears springing up in her eyes. “Leandros! No!” Her protests do nothing.

“Quiet, woman!” He hisses. It is not her place or turn to speak. Power and politics is the realm of men. Kalanthe wraps her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Lesya glances up at her mother, not understanding why she is crying and holding so tightly to her or why her brothers all wear the same desolate expression.

“Don’t!” Kalanthe cries as one of the masked men step up to Leandros’ side. “Not my daughter!”

Timotheus, Tityros, and Tundareos all step before their mother and sister —their boyish faces set with grim determination. “We won’t let you take her,” Timotheus declares. He is the eldest son, having endured nine springs. Leandros glowers at his sons’ defiance and pushes them all aside. All her brothers now fearful of being on the receiving end of their father’s wrath. His hand wraps around Lesya’s arm, ripping her from her mother’s embrace. It is only then the girl begins crying. 

A hand, gentler than her father’s, comes to rest upon her shoulder. Kalanthe steps up to her husband rearing back and slaps the _archon_ across the face before spitting at his feet. “Enough, Kalanthe!” Leandros roars, shoving his distraught wife backward. “It is done.” Those words seal Lesya’s fate as the masked men escort her from the villa.

Lesya weeps as they carry her through the streets of Athens and Piraeus to a three-masted trireme called the _Areion_ with a gilded rearing winged-horse for a figurehead. The moon shines silver upon dark water. Vanishing on the horizon is the port and Lesya’s home. No one aboard the ship offers any comfort toward the girl as she weeps, crying herself to sleep at the bow.

* * *

THE _AREION_ IS well-and-truly at sea come dawn. Lesya will not speak to anyone, not even if spoken to. She retreats into herself and imagines she is back in Athens —her brothers playing in the courtyard, her mother teaching her how to weave.

On the third day, a gull of a man with short, thin brown hair sits next to her. She recognizes his voice as one of the masked men who’d taken her from home and family and backs away from him. “Eat, child,” he says, offering a hunk of brown bread, a slice of hard cheese, and a small cluster of grapes.

Lesya’s stomach rumbles at the prospect even if she turns her nose up at the meal. Sighing, the man lays the food and cup of water at the girl’s side and rises. He knows what hardships lie ahead and looks down at the scrawny thing with pity. “You will need all your strength.” The weak never survived the trials. Lesya gives into her stomach’s pleas once the man is no longer watching.

She learns the man who always brings her food is Elpenor of Kirrha, a rich man who will serve as her mentor until they arrive in Phokis. Compared to the others aboard the _Aerion_ , Elpenor is nice. He plays _astragaloi_ with her in the evenings and speaks of his travels around the Greek world as a merchant. To Lesya, it is a pleasant diversion from her current predicament, but Elpenor sees it as his gift to Lesya —the last chance for her to enjoy the freedom of childhood

After six days at sea, Elpenor and his companions grow disquieted. Their unease only makes Lesya more frightened about what the future holds for her. Elpenor takes a seat at the girl’s side near one of the masts —she’s managed to make a necklace from a piece of frayed rope and a broken piece of shell. He offers her the same meal simple meal, but this time there are two strips of salt-cured venison. He tells her if the gods are good, they will reach Phokis during the night.

Lesya expects to partake in another game of _astragaloi_ , but Elpenor gives a solemn headshake, raking the sheep ankle bones into a canvas pouch 'fore tying it off with a leather cord. Tonight is when her childhood dies and the innocent twinkle will fade from her eyes. Chrysis will make sure of it. He lays his hand on her shoulder. “Leandros claims you destroyed his family–” he pauses and watches the despair overtake the girl’s young face at the bitter reminder of her father and family “–so you will become destruction.”

Her eyes widen and fear overtakes her. “When you depart this ship, you will leave your past, your name, and your family to become something greater,” Elpenor tells her with surety. He knows there is resolve in the girl to have endured eight springs with a man as odious as Leandros. Now she would have to put her resolve to a different task —surviving. Lesya says nothing, only trembles in place.

“The moment you step off this ship you are Lesya no longer, but Enyo,” he says, his heavily-ringed hand moving from her shoulder to chin. “Do you understand, child?” Elpenor asks. Lesya nods. 


	2. The First Trial

BRONZE DROPLETS OF venom hang from the fangs of a great serpent coiled around stalactites and stalagmites in the Cave of Gaia. Its scales glinting gold in the dim light of the braziers. Beneath the Python's open mouth is a golden pyramid, pulsating with light. It draws Lesya toward it like a moth to flame. Elpenor explains it is a powerful artifact of ancient origin —only those descended from or gifted by the gods can use it effectively. The last person to be gifted a vision from the pyramid had been Pythagoras.

The antechamber Elpenor leads her to has burning sconces lined around the smoothed walls —the flickering flames cast light on five children of a similar age all wearing the same grey _exomis_. Standing above them is a woman with greying hair and wrinkled face, her jowls already beginning to sag. She extends a spindly hand in the direction of her newest daughter, bidding her step forward. Elpenor presses his hand to her back, urging Lesya forward. The woman's smile is something haunting —a cage of teeth that reminds the girl of a smiling shark. "Come and meet your brothers and sisters."

 _I already have brothers_ , Lesya bites her tongue as she looks at the three boys and two girls staring at her. They're all bigger and leaner than she is —each of them has a hungry glint in their nigh hollow eyes. Leysa glances over her shoulder, but Elpenor is already gone. Her frightened gaze returns to the crone and her children. The woman motions to those standing before her and rattles off their names. "This is Deimos, Polyas, Kyberniskos, Elena, and Syntyche."

Chrysis steps in front of Lesya and takes hold of her chin, turning her thin face toward the light —scrutinizing her high cheekbones and the dusting of freckles. The girl has the face of a priestess or a hetaera, not a warrior. "And what is your name?" It's both a simple question and a test.

"Enyo," Lesya responds, remembering what Elpenor had told her.

Lesya sits away from the fire as the other children laugh and speak of battles —their own victories. She curls into herself, neglecting the small plate of food at her feet, despite how her belly groans and rumbles and silently begins to weep. This is not where she belongs. She was meant to continue her womanly lessons under Kalanthe —weaving, and sewing, playing the lyre, even pottery. From between her fingers, she can see the others looking at her and knows now their laughter is directed toward her.

Someone sits next to her, weary Lesya raises her head and finds the largest and meanest looking of the boys at her side. _Deimos_ , Chrysis named him. His dark brown hair is shorn just above his ears —his face a solemn mask as he doesn't share in the other's amusement. "Don't let Chrysis see you crying," Deimos mutters. Tears are a mark of weakness, and weakness cannot thrive in this place.

Her hair —a mix of chestnut and copper— clings to her damp cheeks. "I want to go _home_ ," she tells the boy. His other brothers and sisters were much younger when Chrysis took them under her care —it was easy for a child of two or three to forget their names and family, but she has already endured eight hard summers. Forgetting will not come easy, if it comes at all. Deimos looks over her —thin arms and legs with knobby knees and unsettling eyes the shade of a fresh laurel wreath.

Giving in to the pitiful cries of her stomach, Lesya reaches for the plate of food —fresh nectarines, olives, brown flatbread, and two clumps of roasted red meat. "Here," Deimos says, offering her his ration of meat. "You need it more than I do."

* * *

"AGAIN," A HARSH voice barks. Alektor circles the two girls, hands behind his back and disappointment on his scrunched up face. He is an ostracized Spartan who now serves the Cult of Kosmos —instructing Chrysis' children in matters of combat and war. Alektor is a cruel man and enforces that every bruise, bloody nose, cut, and broken bone is a lesson —weakness leaving the body. Enyo rolls onto her back and looks up at Syntyche through a swollen eye, the other obscured by blood trickling down from a gash at her hairline. She kicks her legs up and out, springing to her feet.

Syntyche steps around Enyo and lands a quick blow to her already sore ribs. She blocks the next blow intended for her face with her forearms and pushes back —grunting with exertion but making no progress. Her opponent laughs and shoves Enyo back. A fist connects with her jaw, and blood fills her mouth. The sudden jolt of pain is enough distraction for Syntyche to crouch low and swing her leg around —knocking Enyo to her back for what feels like the millionth time.

"Again," Alektor roars, swatting both girl's legs with a supple switch. It whistles through the air in warning before snapping against Enyo's thigh. She rolls onto her hands and knees, expelling a combination of dark blood and bile. AGAIN!" Sweat stings her eyes and the cut on her forehead, but she stands again —left shoulder hanging limp.

Enyo comes for Syntyche wildly swinging her right arm. She lands a lucky blow, striking the other girl's cheek. The small victory only brings more pain. A hand rips at her hair, twisting near the scalp —her shrill cry is enough to bring everyone in the training grounds to a standstill. Tears prick at her eyes as she drops to her bloody knees. The pressure disappears and a sharp, bony elbow collides with the side of Enyo's head. Specks of black and white flood her vision as she slumps over. Syntyche spits red-tinged saliva at the Enyo's side.

"Enough," Alektor snaps, tired of the incompetence of Chrysis' new champion. Enyo feels blood pooling under her cheek, dripping from her mouth and nose. Her body is screaming for her to stay down, but she presses her hands to the gravel and pushes herself back to stand on uneasy legs —clenching her bony fingers into tight fists.

Chrysis hides a reserved smile at the girl's perseverance.

* * *

"DEIMOS?" ENYO KNOWS it is him. He's the only one besides Polyas that is nice to her. Neither Syntyche nor Elena like her —Polyas says it's because they're jealous of how rapidly she'd become Deimos and Chrysis' new favorite even though she was weak. Kyberniskos, on the other hand, despises everyone equally.

He passes her a stone cup of cool water and lowers himself next to her, noticing the knob of bone protruding from her bruised shoulder. Without warning, he grips onto Enyo's arm and presses onto her side. The quick jerking motion is followed by soft _pop_. She immediately clutches her shoulder. "It gets easier," Deimos says, tilting her face toward him. Both her eyes are blackened, top and bottom lips swollen and busted, and a crusted scab fades back into her hairline —somehow her upturned nose was unscathed.

"What?" Enyo asks. "Getting beat?" The boy doesn't answer.

They sit next to each other for a long moment, staring at the dancing flames and listening to the sound of water bubbling up from the underground spring. "Polyas and I can help you get better," Deimos mutters, his quiet tone still manages to echo in the depths of the cave. Enyo looks at him —eyes wide. "Meet us after sundown," he tells her before leaving.

Polyas and Deimos are waiting in the training grounds after the sun sets and the moon begins to rise. "You're fast," Deimos remarks —he's seen her fight with the other girls and Enyo can easily evade predictable blows, but tires too easily and fails to deliver significant damage to her opponents. Elena and Syntyche walk away from sparring sessions nigh unscathed while Enyo is left bloody and bruised. "But you need to be stronger."

He nods to Polyas and the other boy lifts a pair of oenochoai filled with ingots of iron and sand then lunges forward. He holds the stance with his torso straight and knees bent for three long breaths before rising and stepping forward with his other foot. Polyas sets the pair of oenochoai down in front of Enyo —removing the added weight of the iron and several large rocks from each. "You try," he says, motioning toward the vases.

Spindly fingers wrap around the glazed handles —she heaves them off the ground and lunges forward as Polyas had, though her arms are almost too short to keep the oenochoai off the ground. On the third repetition, her shoulders start to shake, back curving forward. "Keep your shoulders back," Deimos tells her, his voice is lower and rougher than Polyas'. Enyo listens and pushes forward until her knees collapse —unable to carry on.

The exclusive training session is not over yet, though. Deimos disappears and returns in a trice carrying a thick branch as long as Enyo is tall. He threads the branch through the handles of the oenochoai, tying them together with a thin leather baldric so they won't slip off and break. Then he lifts the weight from the ground. He curls the barbell toward his chin several times before offering it to Enyo.

She mimics Deimos' motions, though her movements are not as fluid as his. Polyas and Deimos both correct her form when it falters and after several sets of repetitions, Deimos catches the barbell when it slips from her exhausted hands. "One of us will be here every night," Deimos announces and Polyas nods in agreement. They will help Enyo find her strength. After all, no one could become Achilles or Herakles overnight. 


	3. Learning the Ropes

“BEGIN,” ALEKTOR SHOUTS, snapping a pliant twig against his thigh with a _crack_. Enyo stumbles on the loose gravel and falls to one knee, a mistake of her own doing. _You fall, you die_. Deimos’ words echo in her mind. Syntyche sees it as an opening —she rears back and swinging her fist at the girl’s temple. Enyo catches the punch midair, and Syntyche’s eyes widen. Bones in her hand grind and creak as Enyo bends back her fist, rising from the ground.

Planting her feet firmly in the gravel, Enyo balls her hand into a fist and swings —her knuckles collide with her opponent’s nose producing an audible _crunch_. Syntyche stumbles backward, blood running over her lips and chin from the broken nose and tears well up in her eyes —she’d been victorious so many times she’d forgotten what pain felt like. Using the distraction to her advantage, Enyo charges toward the other girl, head and shoulder lowered.

The impact forces Syntyche to her back and then Enyo is pummeling her face with no restraint. Deimos and Polyas share a look —months of helping and training the scrawny little girl had paid off. Elena charges into the chalked ring, leaping onto Enyo’s back with a fierce yell. It gives the other girl a chance to stand and wipe the blood from her nose and mouth. Syntyche lands a blow to Enyo’s ribs that once would have sent her to the ground, now it just makes her angry. She ducks beneath the second punch and kicks —her heel strikes something soft and is followed by a shrill cry.

Elena bends her arm beneath Enyo’s chin —a desperate chokehold, but to no avail. She bends, reaching behind to grip onto Elena’s shirt and sides. With a shout, Enyo pulls free of the chokehold and tosses the girl from her back outside of the chalked ring. Polyas holds fast to Elena’s shoulder, preventing her from reentering the match —there would still be time for her to face Enyo.

Enyo throws up her arms, protecting her face from a series of quick jabs. Dropping down, she sweeps her leg around knocking Syntyche off her feet again and pounces —hands pinning her opponent down. There’s a moment when Syntyche writhes, unwilling to accept defeat but when Alketor snaps the twig against her legs she knows the match is over. Enyo may have won her first victory, but the true competition had just begun.

* * *

ENYO LOSES TRACK of how long she has been in Phokis. Six, perhaps even seven, springs have passed since she’d been taken from Athens. The scared, scrawny little girl who disembarked from the _Aerion_ is a distant memory. Enyo is tenacious and dauntless and strong.

With Deimos at her side, the two of them are unstoppable. They are undefeated against Polyas and Elena, Kyberniskos and Syntyche. It becomes clear who will be the Cult’s champions when the final trial commenced, but until then Chrysis will act as though her children still have equal chances.

On a rare occasion, Alektor releases them all from the training grounds early —he has imperative business to tend to outside of Phokis. Despite his reigning cruelty, even he knows the strongest of warriors still need time to rest. Until he returns, training will be optional for the aspiring champions.

Deimos, Polyas, and Enyo huddle around a fire —frying rashers of salt-cured meat from a wild boar they’d killed two moons past for a morning meal. The others are strapping on greaves and bracers that are still too large. Chrysis reminds them they will grow into the armor one day. Rumors speak of a shipwreck on the coast —a merchant ship transporting lions and other beasts to the arena in Phepka, but was stranded during a storm before even making it out of the Gulf of Korinth. Syntyche and Kyberniskos want to see if the rumors are true and earn new pelts if they are.

“Deimos!” Elena calls.

He looks over his shoulder then silently returns to the slices of boar rendering in the iron pan. “I’ll be there soon,” Deimos responds. Polyas and Enyo glance at one another across the fire —they had always been gentler and weaker than the others. It’s a mystery why Deimos prefers their company over the others. When the boar is finished, Deimos takes his slices then rises and motions for Polyas and Enyo to come along.

The others are waiting outside the villa. Both Elena and Syntyche’s expressions fall when they see Enyo tottering alongside Deimos. “Don’t let her come,” Syntyche laments, but Deimos’ harsh glare is enough to silence the girl. Enyo isn’t sure what she’d done to earn Deimos’ favor, but she had also earned bitter enemies in Syntyche and Elena.

Compared to Athens, Phokis is in a perpetual state of autumn. Leaves are always painted with warm hues of gold and red, flittering from half-bare branches to the ground. Blue sky peeks through the canopy of bright leaves, though grey clouds are gathering in the distance. A storm is coming —Enyo can feel it in the wind when it changes direction. Their group pushes through the forest to the south. On a ridge, they spot the shipwreck just offshore. Crates, barrels, and empty pots bob in the water —washing up on the pale sand beach.

Elena spots the trapped lion cub first as they descend the ridge toward the ship —its foot caught in a hunter’s snare, the metal teeth digging into the cub’s hindquarters. The others follow in Elena’s steps, but Enyo stalls and grips onto the thin leather baldric strung across Deimos’s shoulders before he can enter the clearing too. This just a _cub_ , still too young to fend for itself and unless its mother was killed, then a lioness still lurks nearby.

“Stop,” Enyo tells him voice low. He looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Listen.” In the underbrush opposite of she and Deimos is a low growling —a lioness unwilling to abandon her cub. Even beasts knew to protect their young. Before either of them can call out to the others the lioness leaps from the underbrush, sharp teeth bared.

The lioness rears back on two legs and swipes a massive paw at Elena. It must have caught her arm because the girl yelps and drops her sword. Polyas and Kyberniskos push the beast back with their short spears, but it only serves to make the lioness angrier. Deimos shifts, hand moving to his sword but Enyo shakes her head —if the others are smart, they will run.

Kyberniskos’ spear bites into the lioness’ flank, drawing blood. He pulls the spear back and thrusts it forward again, missing. The lioness attacks again —claws sinking into the arrogant boy’s calf. Polyas drops his spear and calls for a hasty retreat. Elena is already halfway up the embankment with the others trailing behind. Syntyche grasps onto a loose root and her footing slips. Unable to recover, she slides down the hillside back into the domain of the lioness. The beast pounces, teeth sinking into Syntyche’s throat before she can even scream. There’s a _crack_ and then her body goes limp.

Deimos and Enyo watch in silence as the lioness tears Syntyche to bloody shreds. Despite better judgment after having seen what the lioness was capable of, Enyo darts into the clearing, sliding next to the cub. He wants to shout at her for being reckless, but doing so would end badly for both of them. She works quickly, pulling on the trap until there’s a gap large enough for the cub’s leg to slip free.

Taking the trap with her, she rolls back into the underbrush where Deimos waits. She’d been so quiet, the lioness had not even lifted her head from Syntyche’s corpse. The cub limps to its mother and immediately takes to a teat. Deimos grips onto her arm and hauls her back to the main road. They take one last look down the gully where the lioness now cracks and chews on Syntyche’s bones. Chrysis will not be happy.

“Where were you two?” Kyberniskos shouts. “Cowering in the bushes?” He sneers. Deimos steps in front of Enyo and rears back —fist connecting with the boy’s nose. _I’ll swallow my blood before I swallow my pride_ Deimos had told her one night while strength training.

Enyo steps between the two boys. Deimos pauses his assault, and Polyas restrains Kyberniskos with Elena’s help. “We freed the cub,” she announces, throwing the trap down as proof.

* * *

POLYAS TRIES TO stop her from leaving the villa at such a late hour, but Enyo does not listen. She’d set off heading northwest. She visits Lalaia often during the hours not consumed by training or learning the ways of war. Today had been routine —like all the others— most was spent sparring and with a bow in hand. The roar of the water echoes through the woods and along the road. Kephisos Spring is always a welcome sight.

Shedding the bow and quiver on her back and the _kopis_ on her hip, Enyo then slips from the sweat-stained _chiton_ and into the cool water. She holds her breath and sinks below the surface. There are times when she has wondered what should happen if she stays in the water for eternity, but the burning in her lungs always brings her back to the surface. It’s calm below the water —unlike life. When Enyo resurfaces, she’s no longer alone.

Deimos is there. He’d followed her after hearing the commotion she and Polyas made in the villa courtyard. Enyo can’t say she’s surprised to see him —as of late it seems they are rarely separated from one another. She circles him. The muscles in his back are tense, and a dark dusting of hair covers his chest now. Chrysis had scolded them both the last time she caught them together like this. “We’re not supposed to do this anymore,” she reminds him.

“What?” Deimos challenges —pushing back his soaked dark brown hair. “Bathe?”

“Together,” Enyo clarifies, rolling her eyes. “We’re no longer children.” By society’s standards, she was a woman now —fit to marry and bear children. Should she have remained in Athens, that would have been her fate but now her body is a weapon. Deimos stares at her. Years have carved delicate features from a rounded face and turned the straight and harsh lines of her body into soft curves. _No,_ he thinks _we are not children anymore_.

Enyo wades to waterfall feeding the upper spring and pulls herself onto a rock beneath the flowing water —rinsing the oil from her hair. There’s fire in her hair, and it shines like a copper coin. Elpenor had told her it was the mark of the gods' favor —and the constellation Virgo made of freckles on her left thigh. Deimos leans against the same rock and unwittingly, Enyo throws one of her legs over his shoulder.

Carefree moments are hard to come by, especially since everyone had grown older. Deimos tugs on Enyo’s ankle and leans his head back. “Chrysis has arranged the final trial,” he announces. _The final trial_. Chrysis and Alektor had both talked about the last test —the most difficult. Only two would emerge and be able to call themselves champion.

“Not much of a trial for you is it?” She notes. He was the strongest in comparison to Polyas and Kyberniskos —Enyo cannot recall the last time he’d lost a match. The bruises and cuts he acquires are nothing in comparison to what the other boys look like at the end.

He turns his head into her thigh and spots the dark freckles that form Virgo. “Shouldn’t be for you either,” Deimos replies. Syntyche had been Enyo’s only real competition, and the lioness had taken care of her. Elena was sloppy and predictable —two disadvantageous traits. _Promise you’ll win_ he wants to say but the words are stuck in his throat. 


	4. A Night Raid

WHEN THE FINAL competition commences, there is no doubt Deimos will emerge victorious among his opponents. His is the blood of gods and with it, he can harness the power of the Pyramid and Damoklean sword. No one would stand a chance against him. The name given to him was chosen with apt foresight —he was the personification of dread. Soon all of the Greek world would come to fear the sound of his name alone. 

If he was to be dread, his counterpart would be destruction. With them, the Cult would control everything. Some of the gathered Cultist place bets on Elena to best Lesya, while others are quick to realize should Lesya fail reining in Deimos would be impossible. It’s not much of a competition between Enyo and Elena either. 

The match had only just begun, but it already looks as though it’s coming to a close. Enyo lifts her sword, parrying the blow aimed at her calf. She flicks the blade up —slicing Elena’s cheek. Elena stumbles and Enyo spins, slashing a clean line up the girl’s spine. She cries out, slipping to her knees. 

Enyo levels her blade at Elena’s neck. Their eyes meet and there’s a moment’s pause. A moment where the Cultists fear Enyo will not carry through. Killing soldiers is nothing compared to killing someone who’d been raised alongside you. Any doubt is chased away when Enyo pulls the sword back and swings. It’s not just a slash to the throat —the strength and speed behind the blade takes the girl’s head clean off. 

She turns, glancing around at those gathered to watch and finds Deimos among them. He goes to her wearing a grim smile —face painted with the blood of Polyas and Kyberniskos— and presses his forehead against hers. 

Chrysis and the Ghost of Kosmos watch the pair from afar, both their identities concealed from one another behind terrible masks weeping tears of red. “What have we done?” The Ghost whispers, betraying the feminine voice she’d kept concealed for years. The Ghost had never believed children could be turned into weapons. This display of carnage proves her wrong. 

The old priestess grins behind her mask, pride filling her as she looks at her children. Deimos and Enyo. Dread and Destruction. All of Hellas would learn to fear them. “We have built machines,” she proclaims.

* * *

IT’S ONLY SIMPLE tasks at first. Disposing captains, sinking ships, killing soldiers in the night —building strife between Athens and Sparta. War is inevitable, and the Cult will profit from the chaos. All it will take is a push for the two city-states to collide. Whispers begin spreading around Hellas of two demigods garbed in white-and-gold —fighting with the strength of twenty men— and one of them is a woman. No one can match their prowess. Deimos and Enyo spill blood for the thrill of it. 

Tonight is no different. In the distance, moonlight glints off the still waters of the Gulf of Korinth and the lanterns and braziers pocking the city gives the horizon a soft golden glow. Rising from the land is a massive monolith, the Temple of Aphrodite sitting proudly atop it with the Akrokorinth fort in the background. The Spartan controlled fort will be filled with only corpses by the time the birds sing.

“You have the letter?” Deimos asks. Enyo nods, patting the scroll of papyrus tucked into her belt. It bore the seal of the Athenian general, Perikles, and held forged commands to conduct a raid on the fort —more fuel for the fire. 

Deimos approaches the fort’s entrance alone —out of the corner of his eye, he can see her, scaling the uneven stone wall with ease. “That’s close en-” the sentry’s statement is cut short by a knife plunging into his neck —he hadn’t heard Enyo drop down behind him. She pulls the blade free with a spray of blood and lets the body fall limp at her feet with a flourish. _This is too easy_ she thinks, smirking at her counterpart. 

Together, they heave the great wooden doors shut and barricade them —trapping the sleeping Spartans. Craving the thrill of combat, Deimos smashes several jars of oil then kicks over a lit brazier. Flames jump into the night and above the roar of the fire is shouting —calls for the sleeping men to wake. A small group flows out of the barracks with spears and shields at the ready. Deimos draws his sword and Enyo spins her twin short-blades. 

With a cry, she leaps through the flames bearing down on one of the Spartans. He lifts his shield in time to block the blow but misses the second blade. It prods the man’s shoulder and drives him to his knees. Enyo shoves aside his shield and slashes both blades across his neck. In a trice, she is surrounded by hoplites and their spears. She sheathes both her blades —dodging and leaping over spear thrusts. Over her shoulder, Deimos is picking off the brutes one-by-one. 

The point of a spear catches on the opening of her cuirass. Bringing her arm down on the lance, it breaks into two and gives an opportune opening. Enyo charges the weaponless hoplite, driving both of the broken lance ends into the man’s belly. She catches the spear of another hoplite —rips it from his grasp then runs him through with the dull point affixed to the end. With a deft flick of the same spear, she takes another’s head, then spins, ramming the spear hard into the belly of a third, then tosses one of her blades at a fourth —the edge plows into the hoplite’s skull. 

Kicking up a discarded spear, Enyo squares off with an _ekdromos_. She taunts the man with feints —smile grim and face black with blood. He lunges forward, enraged, but she steps aside and swings the spear. The blade’s edge cuts deep into his thigh. The _ekdromos_ stumbles, managing his balance. A flash of silver fills her version when she bends backward, dodging the blow. Enyo leans farther back, planting her hands on the ground and flips back upright. 

The _ekdromos_ nears her again, swinging his sword wildly —she parries each blow with the wooden shaft of the spear. Grasping onto his sword arm, she stills his advances and drives the spear point through his foot. She catches the sword as it slips from his grasp and the howl of pain is cut short when she impales his neck with the blade. With a quick twist of the hilt, the head falls from the Spartan’s shoulders to the ground. 

Scores of men are preparing to stream from the barracks —fully armored. Enyo darts toward the entrance, plucking two heavy battleaxes from the ground. She slams the door closed and braces it with the axes. Pulling two torches from a brazier, she tosses them through the slim stone windows and peers in to see the fire take on the straw bedding. The pounding on the door grows louder —more frantic— as smoke starts to stream from the windows. Bracing the door with the second axe, Enyo steps back —she can feel the heat coming through the stone. Soon after, the screaming begins. 

Deimos faces down two _strategoi_ and a _hypapist_. He swings the Damoklean sword, nearly cleaving the _hypapist_ in two at the waist. Intestines and large pulses of blood fall from the Spartan’s midsection before he collapses. Enyo darts forward and slides past one of the _strategoi_ on her knees —slicing the back of his knee before popping up next to Deimos. “How many?” Enyo asks. 

“Maybe fourteen,” Deimos replies, stepping out of the spear’s reach. “I lost count,” he adds, panting. He parries the _strategos_ ’ blow, moving closer, and shoves his sword through the gap between the Spartan’s helm and breastplate. Blood runs down the blade and he rips it free in time to see Enyo bring down the second _strategos_ with a swift cut to the throat. 

The barracks are burning with Spartans trapped in the flames and everyone around them lies dead in pools of blood. Rustling in one of the bushes draws Enyo’s attention —she nudges Deimos and points to the cowering _phalangite_ —a poor excuse for a Spartan. The soldier makes a dash toward one of the walls in disrepair on the cliff-side. 

Deimos flips the spear in his hand and lazily throws it at a fleeing soldier. The point punches through the thin armor and into the center of his back —he takes another step then falls face forward, unmoving. None are left alive and the Cult’s champions claim another victory.

* * *

FAILURE IS ALL but a stranger to her and Deimos, together or apart. They kill as commanded, and rumors of two demigods strengthen and spread over Hellas. Another test comes with individual assignments. Deimos and Enyo had proven themselves capable of completing tasks together, but to be true champions they had to be successful on their own. Her first assignment is assassinating the leader of Melos —and it goes splendidly. It’s not just her dual blades that are deadly, but her womanly charms. Men fall easily enough for a pretty face. 

Nisos summons her to the Sanctuary. He’s a poor replacement for the old Spartiate, Alketor —a wild boar gored Alektor during a hunt, and the tactician and trainer wasn’t able to shake the gut wound. 

The Cult had tasked Deimos with purging Kythera of its politicians and indoctrinating their replacements with the values and goals of Kosmos. He’d set sail the morn before last and only the gods know when he will return. Though now Nisos waits for her at the head of five masked cultists before the golden pyramid —his face pinched, lips taut as he delivers the scroll with the orders. “An Athenian Polemarch has been causing issues for our scouts in Megaris,” one of the masked figures explains —voice too low to belong to a woman, “see he does not interfere again.”

Enyo nods, tucking the scroll into her belt and turns on heel. She will depart for the Megarid at once. Before midday, she sits tall and proud astride a black mare named Nyx, riding southeast to pluck another thorn from the Cult’s side. A smirk crosses pulls at her lips upon hearing thunder rolling in the distance. _This is too easy_. 


	5. A Brother's Love

TWO FORT SENTRIES fall silently on her blades with startling ease. Enyo hauls the corpses to a thick patch of shrubbery against the white-stone walls. The polemarch’s chambers are in the center of the fortress and will be heavily fortified —stealth must be her ally. She drives one her blades up into the hoplite’s back, hand reaching round to muffle his alarmed shout. Pulling back the blade, he falls to his knees and Enyo grips onto his head, turning his neck with a quick twist until it _snaps_. The remaining guards fall similarly —quickly and silently. 

The Athenian Polemarch sits at his desk, heavy armor piled in the corner for the night —he’s answering correspondences from Athens and their general, Perikles. Enyo takes a deep breath and enters the room, keeping low and to the shadows. She moves to strike, but the polemarch knows he’s no longer alone. He turns and throws up his sword, deflecting the blow meant for his neck. 

He freezes in place. Swords locked together—looking as though he’s seen a ghost. Enyo is frozen too, eyes wide and full of fear. The polemarch’s hair and beard almost black, but what makes her stop is the scar running through his left brow back up to his hairline. _My brother had a scar like that_ she thinks _he tripped headfirst into a heap of vases in the agora as a boy. We were playing tag_. His eyes are a haunting memory of a life she was meant to forget. “Sister?” The polemarch whispers, disbelieving —his sister was the only person he’d ever known to have copper hair and laurel eyes.

Enyo stumbles —it feels as though she’s taken a blow to the gut. “Timotheus?” She asks, voice quivering. He nods, lowering his blade. Enyo does the same. 

Timotheus discards his blade completely, shaking his head. “We-” he starts, running his hand down the length of his face “–father said you were dead.” Leandros knew the girl would not survive the trials set before her. But she had, and now Lesya is one of the wraiths Timotheus’ men speak about around the fire at night. Her face twists at the mention of the bastard who’d chosen her to be the sacrificial lamb. 

“Tundareos went searching for you,” he tells her. As soon as Tundareos was old enough to be considered a man, he left Athens aboard a merchant ship determined to find his sister. Timotheus hopes the gentle reminder of her brothers is enough to bring some semblance of emotion to her ire-hardened expression. It doesn’t. Enyo is full of unbridled rage and looks like a feral animal —trapped in a snare. “What did they do to you?” He whispers, but she does not respond. The polemarch lifts his chin. “You’re here to kill me,” he surmises from the blood on her hands and blade. 

Clenching her jaw, she moves to the open window glancing over the fortress. The fort is silent still —no one has discovered the bodies. “Give up your position and leave the Megarid,” Enyo tells him. It should be easy to kill him. Timotheus has played no part in her life for more than a decade —until tonight she’d all but forgotten her sheltered childhood in Athens. “They’ll send another in my place if you don’t,” she warns him. Deimos would not show the same mercy she had. “Give me your seal.”

Reluctantly, he draws the gold medallion from his robes and undoes the knot in the leather thong. Something tells him she needs this seal more than he does. A seal meant little though when a battalion knew one’s face and voice. Enyo snatches the seal from her brother’s hand. She glances down at the medallion, nodding her thanks before turning and leaping from the window. “Lesya!” Timotheus shouts. Three stories below she emerges from a stack of hay and races back into the night. 

* * *

IN ONE HAND is the polemarch’s seal, in the other is the bloody head of an Athenian soldier —it’d already started rotting during the return trip. Four cultists are gathered around the pyramid, discussing something quietly —her entrance into the Sanctuary shifts their attention. She throws down the head —it rolls to the feet of one robed figure— and tosses the gold seal to another. They nod in approval and speak the praises of their willful champion. Enyo bows with a flourish, turning to leave the Cave of Gaia —her work done. 

Several sets of heavy footfalls echo from an antechamber before she is free. Nisos picks up the severed head and spits on the ground in disgust. “This is not Timotheus!” he roars, tossing the head aside —it _splashes_ in the water. “You were meant to kill the scum!” 

She turns to face the man, not letting the dread she felt show. “He bore the seal of the polemarch,” Enyo refutes, pointing to the Cultist holding up the golden medallion. 

Nisos laughs at the pitiful excuse. “You don’t remember your own brother’s face?” He sneers. Timotheus was a cunning tactician —Leandros had known with his son at the head of a division it would take longer for Kosmos to have their war. It was Nisos' cruel sense of irony that leads him to send Timotheus’ own sister to be the executioner. “You are a blade,” he reminds her. “You have no family.” It’s almost a taunt. “You do as you’re told and failures will be punished.” 

One of the Cultist steps in to interject — _Deimos will have your head if you harm a single hair on hers_ — but it is too late. Enyo withdrawals her twin blades with a grim smile —no one but Deimos could best her in combat— she would face no punishment unless they could bring her to her knees. She steps forward, crouching like a predator —ignorant to the guard approaching her from the back. He swings the flat of his battle-ax into the side of her head and she crumples to the ground. 

Nisos binds Enyo’s hands to a stout wooden post and tears the back of her dark _exomis_ open. The flesh of her back is a pale, smooth canvas —unmarred— and he will be the artist of torment. He unfurls a whip barbed with shrapnel and _cracks_ it against her back. Enyo jolts forward, tears stinging her eyes but she will not give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry or beg. 

The second lash comes as quickly as the first, biting deep into her flesh and tearing. She can already feel something warm sliding down her spine. Nisos pauses and frowns at the strip of grey wool still tied at her back. He nods toward one of his vanguard and the brute cuts off the stained breast-band. A third stroke falls against her shoulder blade. Enyo presses her forehead against the wooden post —nails digging into the rope binding her wrists. 

After the tenth lash, Enyo loses count —her body numb with pain. She can’t grip onto the rope any longer and holding her head up is nigh impossible. But she remains silent throughout the penance for her failure. An eternity later her arms slip down the post. “Get her out of my sight,” Nisos spits. The vanguard drag her from the cave to the champion’s villa and toss her into the courtyard like a used cloth. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance then erupts with a loud clap. The sky opens up in a torrent. Unable to stand, Enyo watches the water around her turn the pale mosaic tiles red. Cool rain soothes the burning and stinging, but each small impact against the broken skin of her back adds another layer of pain. She lays there, weeping —hoping her brother’s life is worth this torment.

* * *

HEAVY FOOTFALLS STIR Enyo from an uneasy rest. She turns her head and catches a glimpse of a dark _exomis_ identical to her own —but this one is not stained with blood. “Deimos?” There’s no response, but she knows it is him by touch alone. He curls his hands beneath her arms, moving her from the courtyard into the bedchamber and eases her back down where a pillow rests under her head. 

The flesh on her back is torn open in long, crisscrossing gashes that have yet to scab over and still ooze blood. Deimos knows what these marks mean. “You never fail,” he utters, hands rough against the broken and swollen skin. Yet when he takes in her wounds for a second-time rage festers within him. “Who did this?” He asks —hand hovering over the worst of the gashes, he can feel heat coming from it. These wounds need to be cleaned and bound, she’s already gone too long without care. 

“Nisos,” Enyo gasps, turning her head to meet his burning gaze. 

“I’ll return with supplies,” he rasps. It’s partly a lie. Deimos may return with bandages and salves, but he will also return with fresh blood on his hands. 

Two of his knuckles are busted and swollen when he returns carrying a basket of ointment, bandages, and cider vinegar. He doesn’t have to say anything. Enyo already knows Nisos is either dead or wishing he was. The man was crueler than Alektor ever was and incompetent with any other task besides torture. The Cult will not have lost much with his death. 

“Here,” Deimos says, offering a strip of leather to bite down on knowing the pain would get a lot worse before it lessened. Preventing these wounds from festering is paramount. He has seen too many scratches kill men before. He dilutes the vinegar with water and straddles her thighs, then he douses her back with the pungent solution. Enyo screams. Legs flailing. Fingernails tearing into the linen pillow covering. 

He rises and returns with a washbasin, a rag, and a sponge. Wringing water from the linen rag, he lays it is across her lower back and wipes away the blood. They had to look after one another now. She’d always tended his cuts and bruises and could stitch a wound so well it left nary a scar. These lashes cannot be stitched, though and only the gods know when they will heal. 

Deimos cleans the dried and new blood from her sides, then helps her sit upright. Her face is screwed into a pained grimace, chest heaving. Blood has dried on her stomach and breasts, too. Enyo watches as he begins scrubbing away the flaking blood on her belly with a damp sponge. The hitch in her breath when the back of his hand brushes the underside of her breasts is involuntary —his dark eyes flick up to hers, but they are closed. “Why couldn’t you just kill him?” He asks, trying to ignore how her nipples harden beneath his palm as he gently washes away the blood. 

“I–” Enyo starts, breathless, recalling the night the Cult took her —her mother and brothers wept. She grips onto his wrist and opens her eyes. “He recognized me and I froze,” she admits. If Timotheus never turned around, she could have done the deed without hesitation. _Lesya_ she can still hear her brother and mother crying out her name. Deimos pulls his hand free and reaches for the ointment made by the young physician, Lykaon. He smooths the salve over her inflamed and broken skin and wraps her torso in wide strips of linen. 

Enyo slumps forward, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. Instinct wants him to rest a hand on her back, but he thinks better of it and clenches his hands into fists at his side. A few moments later, she’s asleep —he can tell by the even rise-and-fall of her chest and the slow puffs of air on his neck. Deimos sighs and lays back, letting her use him as a pillow. Her hand bunches into the dark linen of his _chiton_ , anything to keep him close. He bends his arm, threading his fingers into her hair and turns his head. _Always so peaceful when she sleeps_ Deimos thinks, using his free hand to brush away the copper waves stuck against her cheek. _Only the gods can help the next fool who thinks about laying a finger on you._


	6. Six Arils

THE PAIN SUBSIDES to a dull throbbing and Enyo forces herself to sit upright. Deimos enters the room —his _chiton_ hanging around his hips— with two plates of food and as if remembering she’d not eaten in days, her stomach grumbles. She dunks the brown bread into a cup of wine before taking a large bite. “You’re not training?” She asks, mouth full and wine dribbling down her chin. 

Deimos shakes his head, cutting into a fig —handing her half of it. She tosses slice into her mouth, relishing in the honey-berry sweetness. He glances at her and the blood seeping through the white linen wrap. She’s a mess. “You can barely move, Enyo,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t like seeing her like this. Enyo is strong —a demigoddess among mortals.

Her face twists. “I’m not your burden,” she hisses, heart starting to pound. “This is was my doing,” Enyo grits out, her voice tight and cracking as though she’s trying to convince herself she deserved this fate. ”My failure,” she mutters. But it wasn’t. Nisos knew what he’d done, and he’d acted on the orders the Cult. She was never meant to succeed. 

Lykaon comes to the villa after several days, examining Enyo’s wounds for himself. She’d escaped the risk of infection so long as the mending scabs were kept clean. He leaves a new batch of ointment —gods know she and Deimos will need it at some point. 

When Deimos returns from the training grounds, he finds Enyo sprawled out in a wooden tub —bliss wrote on her face as a young serving girl massages her scalp with sweet oils. He leans against the doorway, not saying a word or making a sound. It’d been ages since he’d last seen her smile at anything other than death. 

Crickets sing in the cool night air. Somewhere off in the woods of the high valley bears are grumbling and boars forage. Instead of settling in for the evening, Enyo and Deimos had gone to Kirrha before sunset. There were always so many people in the harbor and on the streets that they could walk without fear of being recognized. They looked like any other pilgrim who’d come to see the Oracle of Delphi. 

Enyo stops by a merchant stall and purchases a pouch filled with beads of gold and pearl as she recalls listening to an old storyteller in Lalaia. He spoke of the gods and distant lands. The old white-haired man told them of a group to the east, where men never cut their hair and use beads and bells to signify their victories in combat. By looking alone one would be able to tell the fiercest warriors. It had given Enyo a budding idea. 

Deimos comes away from a farmer’s stand with a pomegranate. He cuts through the thick rind and cracks the fruit open revealing the red arils within. Dark red juice drips from his fingers like blood when he extends the pomegranate toward Enyo. “You’re not trying to trick me are you?” She asks, lips curling into a faint smile. Persephone had eaten seven arils and was doomed to stay in the underworld with Hades for part of the year after he’d tricked the goddess of spring.

“I’m flattered you hold me to such high a regard as Hades,” he remarks, tone borderline on teasing. Enyo rolls her eyes, snatching the piece of pomegranate from his hand. 

Maybe it’s because she’s still healing, but Deimos lets her do as she pleases with his hair when they return to the villa after sundown. His dark brown locks are shorn at his shoulders —half pulled away and tied up from his face in a small bun. He sets a sword across his laps and drags a whetstone down the edge of the blade. Silence falls between them except for the _shring_ of stone on metal. 

Enyo threads the first bead over a lock of his hair and secures it in place with a loop. _We marched into Messenia and secured the region for the Cult. The war factory of Hellas_. One bead soon becomes six. Deimos picks up one of the golden ornaments hanging on a lock of half-matted hair and rolls it between his fingers. “Each bead is one of our victories,” she explains, chin resting on his shoulder. 

* * *

“SHE WILL MAKE him _weak_ ,” Chrysis hisses. She’d seen them with her own eyes —like lovesick children as Deimos tended to the remnants of what remained from the lashing. Her goal was to raise machines —killers with no remorse, but they’d looked like any other young and foolish couple in Hellas. 

Aspasia laughs behind her mask. The old priestess’s concerns seem like nothing more than paranoia. People fear the very whisper of their names. Deimos and Enyo are _demigods_. They fight like demons trapped in flesh. So long as that does not change, Aspasia has little care for how the champions spend their time. “What do you mean? They still bring us victories,” she notes, gazing down at the golden pyramid. “Enyo’s failure to kill her brother is nothing in retrospect compared to what she has done for us.”

“You haven’t seen how they _look_ at one another,” Chrysis spits. She indoctrinated her children to accept love as a weakness, and there was no place in a champion for weakness. _This world is pain_. 

“Did you expect something else to happen?” The _hetaera_ questions. She knows the Cult’s champions are old enough to understand their bodies and their desires. The old crone shifts, glaring at the Ghost. “Enyo is fair with a woman’s body. He is a man —young and personable. They may be weapons, Chrysis, but they still have blood in their veins and worldly desires.” One could strip away humanity and replace it with hatred, but the body itself could not be reprogrammed in such a way. “Let them be,” Aspasia commands, stepping away from the pyramid. “ _For now_.” 

* * *

SWEAT BEADS DOWN her forehead as she pulls back on the string of the bow. The muscles in her back burn in protest. Enyo releases the tension on the string and doubles over, panting. Since the scabs have faded into deep, uneven scars, she has not been able to shoot a bow —the skin of her back is too tight. Enyo steadies her breathing and straightens, holding out the bow and nocking an arrow again. Pushing through the smarting, she forces herself to draw the string back completely with shaking arms. With a cry, she loses the arrow and watches as it glides through the air, embedding into the thorax of the straw-stuffed target. 

Throwing down the bow, Enyo withdraws one of her blades and throws it at the same target, screaming. It punches through where a man’s heart would be. _Weakness must be purged from the body_ Chrysis told them as children, but the scars on her back could not be erased. 

Deimos steps onto the training field bearing a writ —the black seal of Kosmos broken. She already knows what it means, they have a new assignment. “Where are we going?” Enyo asks, ripping her blade free of the target. She _needs_ this. A way to prove to herself the scars on her back have not rendered her useless. 

“Chios,” he answers, passing the scroll to her. The Cult sank its claws into the leader’s twin brother. They were to dispose of the current leader and instate his twin —if done properly the people would never suspect a thing. “We leave tonight.” 

Enyo looks over her shoulder, the sun already has begun its descent. Over the tree line lies the Gulf of Korinth, its dark waters churning. Unrest would take the sea during the winter months. “The seas will not be kind this time of year,” she remarks. Deimos nods his agreement and motions for her to return to the villa with him —preparations must be made before their departure. 

The ship is waiting in a cove away from the Kirrha harbor. Enyo recognizes it immediately as the _Aerion_. The three-masted trireme still looks the same as the first time she’d looked upon in Piraeus. Cult guardians carry coffers of weapons and coin from the dock —enough to pay and arm a small militia. “My dear champions,” Elpenor greets as Deimos and Enyo cross the short ramp, arms spread open in welcome. Of all the cultists, the merchant was the kindest. 

The _Aerion_ departs from the rickety wharf just as the sun dips below the water but storm clouds are brewing on the horizon. “Can’t sleep?” Deimos asks, his voice surprisingly soft. Enyo nods her head. She’s never been one for sailing and the raging storm only makes it worse. She settles next to him, looking across the ship deck from beneath the stern pavilion. Being in the bowels of the ship with waves tossing them to-and-fro was unbearable, she would take her chances above deck. A rough swell collides with the flank of the _Aerion_ and Enyo grips onto Deimos’ thigh to steady herself. 

He drapes his arm over Enyo’s shoulder, shifting to bring her closer. She offers no protest and turns her face into his neck, breathing in his sylvan scent. Before they had sailed headlong into Poseidon’s wrath, she’d spoken to the merchant —the grand mastermind behind the scheme to take Chios. The task rests heavily on her shoulders, Deimos is simply insurance. “Elpenor told me what I have to do,” Enyo murmurs. 

“If any of them-” he starts, voice low and dangerous but she shakes her head, lips kinking. “I can handle myself,” she reminds him, meeting his dark gaze. There was a reason she stood at his side as the Cult’s champion. Bursts of wind shake the canvas and dim the lanterns. Enyo unwittingly leans further into him. He’s not wearing armor, and it feels good to be enfolded in arms and warmth. 

Deimos covers the hand still resting on his thigh —fingers curling around hers. He can feel her pulse racing against his fingertips pressed into her palm. “You’re heart’s beating fast,” he notes and the words brush over her temple. 

“The storm,” Enyo whispers, _and you_ she thinks. Something between them is beginning to change and neither of them can say whether it is for better or worse. 


	7. Old Haunts

ALL MEMBERS OF the Cult of Kosmos convene beneath Delphi for the first time in years —garbed in black robes and terrible ivory masks weeping red. Deimos and Enyo glow in the low light with newly forged and polished golden armor. They look like the personification of dread and destruction —standing side-by-side at the forefront of the cave. 

A war between Athens and Sparta grows nearer —inevitable. All it will take is the right spark. The Cult thrives on the premise of war profiteering, teasing both poleis and their allies until one of them decides to strike first. Korinth beckons Sparta to strike first as the Athenians rise to power and tension grow with Megara, the Thirty Year Peace is all but broken. Even the Thracians, allies to Sparta, have a dispute with Athens —Perikles even ordered a small fleet to sail for Thrace. Hellas was at a tipping point. 

Too much talk of political matters bore the Cult’s champions. Enyo’s fingertips brush over the back of Deimos’ hand, following a raised scar running over one of his knuckles. He tilts his head to the side, gaze darting to his counterpart —he can see the corner of her lips kink into a subtle smile. Deimos shifts his attention back to the meeting but finds himself fiddling with two of her slim fingers, loosely entwining them with his. His expression mirrors her own —though to the others they will appear stoic as always. It feels like a dangerous game they're playing and neither of them knows the rules or what happens if they’re caught. 

The chamber empties of the cultists until only the champions remain. His dark gaze is focused on the golden artifact beneath the open jaws of the great bronze snake. It thrums with power and has long called out to both of them and now may be the only time they have to act on curiosity. Deimos steps toward the pyramid, hand outstretched. “Deimos!” Enyo calls —a part of her fears what secrets the artifact keeps. _Fear is weakness_ she can hear Chrysis saying. 

He looks over his shoulder. “Don’t lie and say you’ve never thought about it,” he goads, knowing she will not back down from a challenge. Enyo follows in his footsteps, coming to stand at his side before the artifact. She places her hand against the pyramid at the same time he does and feels a jolt of energy rush through her followed by memories that are not hers. 

_Alexios!_ _A man and a woman ascend the steep mountain path, behind them is a girl, clutching a baby against her chest —protecting him from the biting wind and sleet. There’s a plateau, at the far end sits an altar of blue-veined marble, scarred with weather and age. A sheltered candle gutters there next to a pot of oil, a krater of sleet-lashed wine and a platter of grapes. The woman halts with a choking sob. “Myrrine, do not be so weak,” the man snaps at her._

_Myrrine’s face contorts, a fire rising inside her. “Weak? How can you call me that? It takes courage to confront your true feelings, Nikolaos. Weak men hide behind masks of bravery.”_

_“It is not the Spartan way,” Nikolaos hisses through his teeth, sparing a moment’s glance at his daughter and young son —still a suckling babe. One of the priests comes at the girl from behind, a second tears the baby from her arms, passing him to an old, withered ephor._

_“The Oracle has spoken,” the priests wail in unison. “Sparta will fall unless the boy falls instead.” The elder priest lifts the baby above his head, stepping past the altar and to the edge of the abyss._

_“No! No!” The woman weeps as two priests drag her back. “Nikolaos, please, do something,” she pleads, falling to her knees with a hoarse cry. He stands resolute as the ephor’s body tensed, readying to hurl the baby into the dark chasm. “Nikolaos, please! Not my baby!” Myrrine cries as the young girl breaks free from her captors and darts toward the ephor. She stumbles, losing her footing and crashes into his flank. The ephor begins to flail, toppling over the edge of the mountainside…the baby with him. Alexios!_

Deimos frowns. 

_A scrawny little girl sits next to a loom with a slave girl, one side of her face a mosaic of blue-and-purple —some places are pinker and take the shape a man’s fingers. The slave girl softly chides her for getting distracted so easily by the sound of her two brothers playing soldiers in the courtyard. Lesya! Her attention returns to the weave of fabric and untangling the loom weights._

_Vases shatter in the courtyard. Timotheus and Tundareos’ antics turn silent as heavy footfalls echo through the villa. Lesya can hear her mother crying. Her brothers dart into the solar and tug her away from the loom, beneath a table. They know too well what it means when their father returns in the late hours of the evening smelling of wine and strong perfume._

_“She’s cursed this family,” Leandros shouts, his ire reverberates off the walls. Tundareos feebly holds onto his sister. The slave girl glances over her shoulder from the loom —she is accustomed to receiving her master’s wrath. Rising, she moves to the table where the children hide and pull a finished sheet of linen to conceal their hiding place. Lesya hears her mother pleading. “Out of my way, Kalanthe!”_

_There’s a soft thud as flesh collides with stone. Timotheus peers around the linen covering, watching as his mother rises from the ground. He eyes the open window. He could lift his sister to it —the drop on the outside was short and cushioned by a bed of spring flowers. “No, she is_ my _daughter,” Kalanthe grits out, tired of his hatred, “and you will_ not _touch her again.”_

They both stumble back from the artifact. Deimos meets Enyo’s troubled laurel gaze and shifts. He lifts his hand to her cheek —the same one he’d seen bruised in the memory. Her eyes slip shut as Deimos’ rough thumb slips over her cheekbone, breath shaking. Deimos cranes down —lips ghosting over hers. He stalls, hovering on the precipice but Enyo will not let the opportunity pass. She tugs on his armor and smiles as his lips —both rough and supple— move against her own. They both know this is wrong, but gods, it feels _right_. 

Enyo pulls away, heart beating in her throat —eyes glowing gold in the firelight. Deimos searches her face for a trice before surging forward, decisive. His hand still rests against her cheek, the other pressed into the curve of her back —it’s astonishing how well they fit together.

* * *

ENYO STRIDES INTO the sanctuary beneath the Temple of Apollo in Delphi with blood spattered across her face and white-and-gold armor. She expects to be welcomed with cries of victory —for now, the Cult has both Malis and Lokris beneath their yoke. The embers of war are turning to flame. 

Instead, she is greeted with Deimos in a state of comatose, blood dripping down his face as Agis and his rabble of miscreants circle the fallen demigod like predatory animals. “Stop!” Agis rears back his truncheon and brings it down on Deimos’ shoulder. “I said STOP!” Enyo roars, driving the jagged end of a broken spear lance through Agis’ back and out his front. The other men step away from Deimos ­—their fear pungent in the air. None of them dare cross blades with Enyo. 

In the shadows, six cultists watch as their scheme comes to fruition. As time drew on, it had become clearer that Deimos and Enyo were reckless and acted on their own terms rather than what the Cult demanded. It’d become more of an issue as of late but had progressively worsened ever since Nisos raised his hand against _her_. “They cannot be controlled, especially when together,” one remarks. In the distant past, the opposite had been true. 

“Take one away and the other is ours,” a deep, grating voice said. The other five nod their agreement. Something needed to be done or the champions would drive the Cult into the ground, risking everything they’d worked to achieve. 

They watch as Enyo pulls Deimos up, draping his arm over her shoulders. She is strong and committed, but hers is not the blood of the gods and they have plans for the rest of his bloodline. “He is more valuable to us,” a feminine voice hisses. Only death would part the champions from one another. 

“I’ll give the order,” a fourth announces stepping back into the dark antechamber. _Gods save me from the wrath of Deimos_.

* * *

DEIMOS GROANS AS he falls back against the smooth stone wall. Enyo kneels at his side and turns his bloodied cheek toward her, bringing his somnolent gaze to her as well. Ever since he was old enough to learn what certain desires meant, he’d always thought Enyo was fair to look upon —now with the dried blood of enemies on her face, she is beautiful. A true war goddess. 

Water drips back into the bronze basin as she wrings out a strip of discarded linen. Wiping away rivulets of blood flowing over his eye, she finds his cheek is already bruised and swollen. “What happened?” It wasn’t commonplace for the Cult’s champion to be covered in his own blood. 

“Bad wine,” he grunts. She doubts it is the full truth, but does not press him to say anything more. Enyo’s fingers go to the ties of his cuirass and pteruges, doffing him of the armor with mechanical efficiency —she sets the breastplate aside to be cleaned of dirt and blood. Deimos undoes the line of small buttons at his shoulders and the grey-and-gold _chiton_ that matches her own falls around his waist. Black-and-blue bruises are scattered across his ribs —she knows time is the only thing capable of mending those hurts. 

Sitting back, Enyo removes her armor and scrubs her face of sweat and blood 'fore setting a filled kettle over the fire to heat for a bath. She fills the stone tub several times over and once pleased with the temperature —strips out of her sweaty and muddy _exomis_. A soft moan escapes her lips as she sinks into the hot water. He spares a quick glance in her direction —eyes darting over her back and the deep, uneven scars. Time had not changed them. 

It’s not long before Deimos joins her. Water laps at the sides of the tub and spills over onto the stone floor. He sits facing away —the muscles in his back tense. On his shoulder blade is a nasty bruise from Agis’ club. Enyo presses the heel of her palm against the dark spot and rotates her hand in tight circles. He tries to stop the groan from leaving his lips, but the tension fades with her skillful ministrations. 

Deimos shifts, stretching his legs as much as he can and leans back —head pillowed on her breast and hand holding onto her thigh. Enyo runs her fingertips up the scar on his side then drapes her arms across his chest and gives a long, content sigh. 


	8. The Great Escape

ENYO TOSSES IN her sleep. A storm rages around her. Thunder claps and sleet lashes her cheeks. She’s there on the infamous slopes of Taygetos —an invisible figure watching as the ephor lifts the babe above his head, stepping to the edge of the chasm. Then both the baby boy and ephor plunge into the darkness, the girl too slow to catch her brother before the fall. _Alexios!_ Deimos reaches over and grips onto her arm, gently bringing her from the dream. “Alexios,” she breathes, eyes opening to the darkness. 

A furrow knits his brows together. Somehow the name feels familiar, as though he’s heard it before, a long time ago. The hand on her arm, slips up to her cheek —thumb following along the silvery scar running through her left brow. “The artifact showed me you,” he begins, softly, “as a girl. You were hiding with your brothers.” She closes her eyes, remembering her childhood in Athens before the Cult had taken it away. Timotheus and Tundareos always did their best to shield her from Leandros’ wrath. It’s what siblings did —protect each other. 

Enyo moves closer to him and runs her fingertips over the jagged scar spanning down his right side. It’d been there even when they were children. “I saw a baby boy,” she starts, voice trembling, “they threw him off a mountain.” Their eyes meet, and she’s held in place under Deimos’ tawny-gold gaze —the same eyes as the baby on the mountain. _Alexios_. Her breath catches. 

Deimos cards his hand through her copper hair. “We leave for Megara at sunrise,” he reminds her. They’d been tasked with keeping the Athenian forces at bay until the Spartans decided to strike. The Megarid was too valuable for Sparta to stand idle while Athens marched forward toward the Peloponnese. 

“It’ll be nice,” Enyo whispers, lips kinking into a subtle smile. As of late, the Cult seemed to make it a point to keep them apart. It feels like ages since they’ve last fought side-by-side. “The two of us finally together again.” She runs her fingers along his jawline. Deimos moves closer and wraps them both in a sheet of linen.

* * *

HE THROWS THE torch into the brazier at the center of the room and the dry wood and kindling takes to flames. Enyo shifts on her bed mat rolling toward the empty spot where he normally laid. Deimos hadn’t been able to sleep and took to the training grounds when he overheard the group —they meant slit her throat while she slept. She wakes with a start, eyes adjusting to the room, and focusing on the blade she holds at Deimos’ neck. “Up, quickly,” he orders, rising to gather her bow and quiver.

Shedding her nightclothes, Enyo reaches for the wide band of grey wool for her _apodesmos_ and another for her loincloth. Once clothed in the black-and-gold striped _chiton_ , Deimos settles the cuirass over her head and fastens the ties with haste, doing the same with her greaves and bracers. He is unsure how much time they have. A hundred questions race through her mind but she voices none of them. The chlamys he wraps around her shoulders is a dark, rough fabric held in place by a bronze brooch. 

Tossing a sack with her bow, quiver, dual blades, and kopis over his shoulder, Deimos grips onto Enyo’s hand and leads her into the night over rock and brook, through the forest and away from the villa above the Temple of Apollo. “What is all this about?” She hisses, pulling her hand back when they reach a small clearing. 

“They’re going to execute you,” he breathes. A cold chill slithers down her spine. Deimos turns around and takes her face in both of his hands. Enyo meets his eyes, shocked to see something she hadn’t thought possible lingering in their dark depths. _Fear_. “I won’t let them.” She nods once, swallowing the lump in her throat and pushing back tears. Unable to grasp why it had come to this. _I am a champion_ to them, _a demigoddess_. Threading his fingers through hers, Deimos turns back to the path ahead. 

Halting at the main road leading into Kirrha, he turns, releasing her hand. “There’s a ship in the harbor called the _Adrestia_. It sails at dawn,” he says. 

“Deimos–” Enyo bites down on her bottom lip and steps up to him, resting her hand on his chest, he’s not wearing armor and she can feel his heart thundering beneath her palm “–you still have heart,” she whispers, “don’t let them take it.” He leans forward, desperate to remember how it feels like to have her lips against his. Deimos’ hand slides up her back and into her hair, pulling her closer. Her kiss is a good-bye and a promise and a dream.

She traces the scar on his cheek. She’d put it there herself while training once. They will punish him for this —she knows they will and so does he. _One day our paths will cross again_. Enyo doesn’t say it aloud, but her eyes do. Stepping away from Deimos, she turns and runs, fighting the urge to look back though it feels like she is leaving a piece of her behind. 

THE SHIP IS slender and well-crafted. It is smaller than an Athenian war galley and painted black near the keel —red around the rails. The stern rises into a curving scorpion tail and the rostrum sports a glinting bronze ram, eyes painted on either side. 

She sees the captain of the _Adrestia_ at the helm of the ship —restless just before the break of dawn— and calls to him. He lumbers off the deck and onto the wharf, straightening a pale blue _exomis_ and white shoulders before introducing himself as Barnabas. His long silver locks are swept back from the sea breeze with a trimmed beard to match, though it is his clouded right eye that garners Enyo’s attention. _He too is marked by the gods_. 

At first glance, Barnabas takes her for a daughter of Ares —lithe and strong, splendid in white-and-gold armor with two blades and bow and quiver at her back, a curved sword on her hip. It is not an everyday occurrence to come across an Amazonian. “Will you grant me passage?” Enyo enquires. Barnabas hesitates —this strange woman may be an Amazonian, but she also has the look of someone who flirts too often with trouble. She reaches behind her back and pulls free a heavy pouch of drachmae. “I can pay and work the deck,” she offers. 

Barnabas eyes the drachmae and after a moment shakes his head. “Keep your coin,” he tells Enyo. Her smile is strained —as though it is not something she is used to doing. He turns and motions toward the trireme in all her worn glory. “Welcome aboard the _Adrestia_!” Barnabas exclaims. 

Enyo follows his footsteps, standing at the helm of the vessel. Rowers extend and lower their oars into the water, pushing the _Adrestia_ away from the wharf and Kirrha harbor toward the west. “What’s our heading, captain?” She inquires. 

The old sailor laughs —a deep, warm genuine sound— motioning to the open water surrounding them. “Wherever the wind takes us!” Enyo leans against the rail, the wind in her hair, salt spray kissing her cheeks. She closes her eyes and lets herself smile. _This must be what freedom feels like_. 

* * *

BLACK SAILS EMBLAZONED with the head of a dragon are quickly approaching. _Pirates_. Enyo spots the ship as soon as they begin turning in the water. “Pirates!” She shouts and the deckhands jump into action. The prowl of the penteconter cuts through the surf —swift and agile. The _Adrestia_ will not be able to outrun a confrontation. 

Enyo holds fast to the ship’s rigging as the penteconter rams into the _Adrestia_ ’s starboard flank —knocking most the crew off their feet, but she is still upright, sword drawn. She leaps onto the deck of the pirate ship, and a sense of familiarity overtakes her — _this is my home_ she thinks. 

One of the pirates lurches forward, brandishing an ax. Enyo raises her sword —blocking the blow then pivots, cleaving deep into the man’s shoulder, bringing a gout of black blood. He drops the ax, howling in pain until she silences him —thrusting her blade into his neck. The next foe comes at her quick. She bends her body around his sword thrust and strips the man of his dagger —jabbing the short blade into his face. He collapses with a moan, face ruptured like a split melon. 

Three pirates remain —the captain among them. Enyo does not hesitate to strike first. She slashes up, ripping the neck of a woman open and sends her toppling into the churning depths. The whistle of metal cutting through air is the only warning she has of another assailant. Dropping to one knee, Enyo turns on the deck and swings her sword hard and fast. The double-edged blade slices through flesh, muscle, and bone —severing the pirate’s leg below the knee. She catches the curved knife meant for her as he falls onto the deck, bright scarlet blood spurting over the dark wood. Enyo drives the blade into the man’s throat and rises. 

The captain is a brute of a man wielding an iron mace, but still not a foe worthy of her prowess. Enyo eyes a discarded spear and kicks it up with a flick of her sandal. She takes several steps back and waits for the captain to step before the mast. With two plodding strides, he does and Enyo launches the spear across the deck at the giant. The javelin hammers into the brute’s chest, throwing him backward and pinning him to the mast. His eyes flare in anger and disbelief before dark blood and bile spill from his mouth followed by a rattling breath before slumping into death. 

Enyo glances at the destruction left in her wake. No one on the _Adrestia_ even managed to board the ship before she dispatched them all to Hades. The deck of the penteconter creaks then begins to sink —leaving a feast for the sharks. She takes a running jump —catching the edge of the trireme and pulls herself up. Most of the crew are staring in awe and veneration as the _Adrestia_ pulls away from the wreckage. 

“By Ares!” Barnabas exclaims, clasping the woman on a bloody shoulder. “You fight like a god!” Enyo’s smile is grim with no remorse. “I could use someone like you on this old vessel,” he remarks. 

Her expression softens. “Seeing I don’t have anywhere to go that would be nice,” she admits. 


	9. The Big Break

BARNABAS WAKES TO screaming. The old sailor lumbers across the deck to where Enyo lays —tossing and writhing like someone is pressing a hot iron into her side. Her eyes are screwed shut, whimpers passing through her lips permeated with sudden shouts. Several of the crew have learned the hard way that waking her during these spells can be painful. She’d broken fingers before waking from the nightmares. Barnabas kneels down next to her, heart aching. He can easily see she’s been through more hardships than most men face in an entire lifetime and she’s still so _young_. Enyo rolls onto her side, face twisted in pain, and a name slipping from her lips over-and-over. 

“Lesya?” Barnabas asks softly, resting his hand on her shoulder in his attempt to coax her away from Hypnos’ grasp. In the moonlight, he can make out the dewy trails left by tears on her cheeks. She sits up —chest heaving as the captain gently speaks her name again. Enyo shakes her head and swallows the lump in her throat. _Lesya_ she thinks, that is my name. “Nightmare?”

It would be easier just to nod, but it wasn’t nightmares that made her cry out —it was her memories. The punishments and beatings, people screaming and begging for mercy before falling on the edge of her blade. She hadn’t realized Deimos was the one who could keep them at bay. “Memories,” she whispers, voice shaking. 

“Here–” Barnabas holds out a skin of wine “–it helps ease the nerves.” Lesya takes the offered drink and downs three large gulps, but there’s no wine in Hellas strong enough to make her forget. She closes her eyes and images of Deimos flash across her mind —as though fate means for them to find one another.

* * *

DEIMOS GAZES AT the artifact, hand hovering over the pyramid. He wants the accursed thing to show him something other than a stormy night and a babe being thrown off a cliff. _Alexios!_ Drawing in a deep breath, he lays his hand against the cool shards of gold and lets the past wash over him. 

“Duck!” He shouts and Enyo dips down, sliding between his legs as he draws back three nocked arrows. All three hammer into the chests of the pursuing Athenians, knocking them backward. Deimos discards the bow and turns to his counterpart. She’s smiling despite the blood-spattered across her face and running down her thigh. “Did you get it?” He asks. They were to retrieve battle plans sent by Perikles to stall Athens’ march into the Megarid. Sparta was so close to a proper declaration of war —this would be the final push. 

Enyo shows the scroll to him. “Of course,” she remarks, securing the plans to her belt and turning back to the road leading to the port. 

“Elpenor isn’t expecting us back until tomorrow.” The way he says it sounds like a challenge. It was meant to be a three-day task, but they’d completed it in two. The Cult had run the both of them ragged as of late. Missions had become the only time they were together anymore. He stoops down, wrapping an arm around her thighs —lifting her up and over his shoulder before marching through the underbrush and trees toward the water. The sun will be setting soon. 

He sits Enyo down near the water and kneels, pushing the hem of her _chiton_ up to inspect the cut on her thigh. It’s not deep nor is it very long and the saltwater stings the cut as Deimos washes it. His hand lingers, and he’s staring at her with those tawny-gold eyes, leaning toward her though he doesn’t realize it. She pushes forward, lips finding his with little hesitance. Deimos shifts and eases her back into the sand —hand slipping up her thigh and around to the scarred flesh of her back. 

Neither of them is wearing armor —the white-and-gold plate would’ve given away their positions too easily in the daylight. Deimos only breaks the kiss when Enyo gathers a fistful of his _exomis_ drawing it up his back and over his head. His chest is heaving faster now than it had in the heat of battle. When she meets his dark gaze, Enyo is certain she could live in this moment for an eternity. 

Waves lap at the shoreline. Enyo rolls onto her side, brushing away the sand stuck to her back. He’s looking up at the stars, hands folded behind his head —the broad planes of his chest rising-and-falling. Muscle tense as her fingertips trace a short scar near his navel. Deimos turns his dark gaze toward her, wondering what thoughts are churning in the depth of her mind for her expression to be so pensive. “What would happen if we didn’t go back?” She asks in a whisper. She _knows_ what life can be outside of the Cult, but he doesn’t. 

Deimos rolls onto his side too, resting his rough hand on the curve of her waist. He thinks of a life without Kosmos, but cannot imagine one exists. _I am a demigod_ he thinks _a champion_. They both know what the Cult does to deserters, even those that showed so much budding promise. Chrysis had said sometimes the best thing a flower could do was die. He moves closer to Enyo, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “They’ll try to kill us.” There was no escaping this life and they both knew it. 

_They tried to kill you anyway_. Deimos’ hand slips from the artifact as footsteps echo in the surrounding darkness. _We should have stayed on that beach._

* * *

“WHAT IS THIS shithole?” Lesya asks, looking out from the wharf to the small wood-and-mud town. In the background rises a large statue of Zeus poised to strike with a lightning bolt in hand. It’s an island she’d never give a second thought to all the time she’d passed it traveling for the Cult. 

“This is Kephallonia!” Barnabas laughs, clapping her on the back. The old sailor keeps a soft spot in his heart for Ithaka and Kephallonia, it was here he’d met his dear Leda so many years ago. He departs the ship, looking for supplies to repair the torn sail and provisions to last for another lengthy voyage. Most of the crew follows, eager to find a tavern or a wench to occupy their time. 

Lesya leaves the _Adrestia_ in search of a blacksmith or merchant —she can’t sail across the Greek world garbed in armor given to her by the Cult any longer. Too many would recognize the emblem. Tying a leather thong through the gold-and-white cuirass, pteruges, greaves, embraces, and belt she slings the shining set of armor over her shoulder and takes to the streets of Sami. 

The blacksmith looks at her as though she’s gone dumb —no one with half a mind would give up armor of this quality and settle for traveler’s robes. He inspects the smooth metal of the breastplate, fitted for a woman but can serve men of shorter stature too. “Why not keep such finely crafted armor?” The armor alone looked to be worth a small fortune, but she would take no coin for it. 

She shrugs. “I do not need it anymore.” Lesya glances at the leather bracers, greaves, and a harness on which she can mount a bow and quiver. “This will serve me well,” she assures the blacksmith, handing over a pouch of drachmae. He gladly accepts the payment and returns to hammering the tang of a sword. 

By nightfall, Barnabas has not returned and they are meant to sail with the morning sun. Lesya paces the deck —she’s grown attached to the old sailor in her year aboard the _Adrestia_. “He should be back by now,” she mutters, mostly to herself but her worries are overheard by the helmsman, Reza. 

“You worry too much, little lamb,” he remarks, gripping onto her shoulder, but she can’t shake the feeling in her gut that something is wrong. 

The captain returns during the early morning hours with a woman in tow. She has dark chestnut hair and wears the armor of a _misthios_ but her proud stance and iron —bordering on arrogant— stare is a giveaway of her Spartan heritage. Lesya cocks her head to the side, sizing up the newcomer. She looks a few years older and stands a head taller than the disgraced champion of Kosmos. But there’s something about her that’s eerily familiar. “Who is this, Barnabas?”

“Kassandra!” He exclaims, clapping Lesya on the arm and motioning to the _misthios_ with a grand gesture. “I owe her my life, Lesya! She saved me from a Cyclops!” It sounds like the start of another of Barnabas’ fantastical stories that border on fiction. 

“Truly?” Lesya laughs raising her brow. She hadn’t realized Kephallonia was home to one of the Cyclopes. 

The old sailor smiles. “I’ve offered her the services of the _Adrestia_ to settle this debt.” Lesya supposes it’s a fair trade. She’d grown fond of Barnabas and wasn’t keen on the idea of losing the old captain. Kassandra steps up to the helm, looking out over the horizon. It’s then Lesya realizes she has the same tawny-gold eyes as Deimos —the same look as the girl on the mountain. “What’s our heading?” Barnabas asks. 

“Megaris,” Kassandra announces. Leysa looks to the east, a grim smile kinking her lips. _We’re sailing into war_. 


	10. Actions and Consequences

THEY CALL HER the Eagle Bearer for the golden eagle she’d found as a chick when she was but a child herself. Ikaros soars high above the _Adrestia_ before diving down toward the deck and perching on the helm’s faded railing. He’s a proud and noble bird. 

Lesya lifts her hand, intent on scratching the eagle’s head the same way she’d done for a hurt dove she’d found in Athens as a girl —she’s met with a hasty bite on her middle finger and a sharp glare. Blood springs up immediately. “Don’t take it personally,” Kassandra notes, plucking a hunk of meat from a pouch on her hip. Ikaros takes the chunk and horks it down, squawking for more but Kass doesn’t relent to the bird’s cries. “He doesn’t like many people.” Lesya holds her bloody finger and glares at the bird.

In the day Kassandra has been aboard the _Adrestia_ , Lesya learns she is the forsaken daughter of General Nikolaos and Myrrine of Sparta. Two people that have been among the Cult’s targets for years. Something akin to horror overtakes Lesya when she realizes Kassandra is the girl from the mountain. Deimos — _Alexios_ — is her brother and she hasn’t the slightest notion that he’d survived the fall too. The truth is on the tip of Lesya’s tongue but refuses to come out and is forgotten when deckhands begin shouting. 

“Hoist the sail!” Barnabas shouts over everyone. As the great blazon of the eagle is tucked away, twenty-men settle on the padded-leather benches running either side of the ship below deck, each taking up a fir-pole oar, lifting it and threading it through a leather loop and thole pin. With a rhythmic splash, the oars meet the wave.

The Megarid is in sight. The journey is all but over —save for the forest of Athenian war galleys blockading the bay, their blue-and-white-striped sails flapping in the wind. Kassandra glances back at the captain and the woman standing at his side. There is no opening through the blockade, and landing to the north or south would mean a month’s journey to pick their way overland to Pagai. Though just when the Eagle Bearer’s hope starts to wan, the old sailor calls out to the crew and rowers. “ _Kybernetes_ ,” Barnabas roars, seeing what Lesya points to in the distance —a lone Athenian trireme. “Turn…turn…turn!”

Under the shadow of the galley’s scorpion tail, the coal-skinned helmsman named Reza grabs onto the twin steering oars, his mighty shoulders shaking with effort, leaning left to edge the ship to the right. He roars with the strain and two crewmen rush to add their weight to the mix.

With a hiss of churning water, the galley tilts to the right, slicing through the waves. Kassandra grabs hold of the rail for balance, Enyo onto the rigging. A sheet of water leaps over her, soaking the deck too, and they watch the loosed javelins of the Athenian _peltasts_ sail into the churn of the _Adrestia’s_ wake. 

The galley rolls level once more and Kassandra finally sees it —the lone Athenian trireme ahead, side on the _Adrestia’s_ prow. Barnabas and Lesya had spotted it through all the other boats —a weak spot in the blockade. None of the Athenian vessels would risk venturing too close to shore after one ship. The bronze ram speeds toward the flank of the Athenian galley. Kassandra’s eyes widened, the Athenians’ faces drop, and Lesya is grinning —the wind whipping her flame-kissed hair. 

“Brace!” Barnabas shouts. The world explodes in a roar of crumpling timbers —the _Adrestia_ lurches, and the sky darkens for a moment with a burst of kindling. Through a chorus of screams the _Adrestia_ cuts, the two halves of the broken Athenian galley swinging open like great wooden doors, the mast falling, the crew clinging to timber for dear life. The commotion falls away as rapidly as it had risen. Lesya looks back at the chaos of foaming waters and groaning wreckage and then the Megarid before them.

* * *

GUARDIANS DRAG HIM into the Cave of Gaia and dump him before the artifact and the iron-shod feet of one of the Cult’s sages. Deimos is beaten and bruised; his last assignment had taken a turn for the worse. Since Enyo disappeared, Kosmos no longer trusted him even as he acquired more power —mostly through fear. Few dared to oppose him any longer. The Sage bends forward, looking down at the champion in disdain. “Where is she?” Kleon hisses. 

“Who?” Deimos asks, his voice rough —eyes almost black in the dim firelight. He looks like a caged animal with blood trickling down his chin, ready to bite the hand that feeds. 

The other masked figures gathered share the same disdain, though it is hidden by the weeping ivory masks. “Don’t play coy, boy,” the Sage snaps. “Enyo!” Deimos glances between the man hovering above him and the Cultists, ignoring the twinge in his heart at the mention of her name. “Elpenor saw her on Kephallonia.”

Pressing his clenched fists into the cracked stone floor, Deimos rises. One of his arms hangs low until he rams the heel of his palm into the limp shoulder. There’s a _pop_ and then he is standing at full height —menacing even in his current state. “She’s dead,” he growls. “I told you.” He’d thrown down a bloody blade at their feet that night after seeing Enyo to safety. They’d believed it was her blood too —he flexes his scarred left hand. 

“And you lied,” the Sage roars, rearing back to strike the champion. Deimos catches Kleon’s wrist, sneering —all it would take is a sharp twist the break it. Those in attendance grow quiet at the champion’s dissonance. A rush of air is his only warning before the flat of a mace collides against his already battered back. The impact forces him to his knees and the breath from his lungs. “He’s beyond our control!” Kleon shouts, looking around at his masked acquaintances. Deimos glances up, spitting blood and trying to jerk free of the hold the two brutes have on his arms. “Rabid dogs should be put _down_ ,” Kleon reviles, meeting the burning hatred in Deimos’ eyes. 

A wave of whispers and silent agreement sweeps through the group. “Get him out of my sight.”

* * *

STENTOR —THE ADOPTED son of Nikolaos— demands the Eagle Bearer aid him in the war efforts before being allowed an audience with the Wolf. He doesn’t trust the _misthios_ and he trusts her companion even less. Kassandra is to look for his scouts over the Megarid and weaken the Athenian hold on Megara until the Spartan forces can strike against the leader. Menexinos the Butcher the people call him —Enyo and Deimos had helped him rise to power as an ally to the Cult. _Menexinos will rise and fall by my hand_ , Lesya vows. 

She slips from the _Adrestia_ in the evening and finds Kassandra overlooking a sparsely manned fort, but still too many hoplites to just barge in. They both have their eyes on the same soldier near an opening in the perimeter of the fence. Lesya frees the bow from her back and an arrow from the quiver at her hip —nocking and losing in a fluid motion. 

“Lucky shot,” Kassandra remarks, peering over the stack of crates to see the arrow find its target having slipped through an opening no wider than three fingers. She has the Eagle Bearer’s respect as a fighter, but that is it. Respect and trust can be fickle things when one’s past is littered with corpses. 

“I make my own luck.” Lesya smiles —pulling another arrow from her quiver. She nods toward the captain’s tent at the camp’s center. “Go, I’ll cover you.” She loses a rain of arrows upon the Athenians, skirting around the camp. 

In a single movement, Lesya bends around from the hips, drawing, nocking, and losing her bow. The arrow takes the guard in the eye just as he lurches in an attempt to run her through. The man flails and crashes headlong into the unlit brazier, where he lay, feet twitching. Another charges her, turning out of his path she pulls one of her blades free. The Athenian hears a clean chopping noise and sees both his hands and spear spin through the air. He stares at the hewn stumps —white bone, marrow, blood— and howls. Lesya thrusts her blade through the man’s neck, silencing his cries. Her gaze turns to the next opponent. 

The hoplite stares at her trembling as she takes a step forward. He drops his spear, turning to flee. Kicking up a broken spear, she throws the half-lance. It punches into the man’s back and he slumps headlong at the camp’s entrance. 

Kassandra emerges from the captain’s tent, wiping blood from her blade onto a scrap of blue fabric. She glances at the carnage and the woman standing amongst it. “How’d you learn to fight like that?” The Eagle Bearer asks. In all her time on Kephallonia, she’d never seen anything like it —even she does not fight with such bloodlust. 

Lesya refuses to meet Kass’ curious stare, instead, she takes in the corpses lying about her feet and the blood running down her blades. “I didn’t have a choice,” she utters, hoping the answer will suffice for now.

* * *

“YOU FUCKING SNAKE,” Deimos hisses, his hand wrapping around Elpenor’s throat. The merchant presses his jeweled fingers into the champion’s wrist. All it would take is one twist from his great arm for his neck to snap. 

Roaring, Deimos drops the Cultist and turns —shoulders heaving. “The letter was not meant for them,” Elpenor explains, rubbing his tender neck. The merchant had always been kinder to them than most. It was his generosity that’d given them a villa in the woods above Delphi. He’d watched the champions grow and had seen something else besides simple friendship blossom between them as well. Elpenor had been who warned him of the hatching scheme against his counterpart. 

Deimos glances toward the lit brazier —the dancing flames remind him of Enyo’s copper waves. A lot of stuff reminded him of her as of late. “She’s well?” He asks, voice surprisingly soft given the anger still harbored in his dark eyes.

“I believe so,” Elpenor tells him, honestly. Enyo had looked strong on the docks of Sami and he might even dare say happy, too. “She’ll be in Megaris by now,” he remarks. She now sails with Deimos’ sister after he’d goaded her into taking a contract on Nikolaos of Sparta. “War still calls her name.” And it always would. Enyo may not have been born into violence, but she’d been baptized in blood at a young age.

Deimos rises, hand holding onto his bandaged ribs —Lykaon had been kind enough to dress his wounds. Elpenor catches the determination in his expression. “I would not do that yet, champion,” he warns, voice cool and calm as always. If everything went according to plan, then Enyo would return to Phokis, and not even the gods could keep them apart. 


	11. The Final Push

“YOU!” MENEXINOS BARKS as Lesya emerges from the shadows. Fear mangles his pinched face, and he swallows hard —it was never a good thing when one of the Cult’s champions came for a visit. His shout is loud enough to summon guards, had there been any left alive in the leader’s house. One of her blades is painted red and dripping onto the floor. He doesn’t have time to reach for his mace before Lesya is there, hand-wound into his oily black hair and the edge of her blade sinking into his throat. With several labored breaths through the spurts of blood, the leader of Megaris is no more. It hadn’t taken an army to bring about his demise. 

Kassandra and Stentor are crafting a plan to assassinate the leader as a final blow to Athens before meeting their forces on the battlefield. Neither of them expects Lesya to stride into the tent and toss down the severed head of Menexinos at their feet. The Eagle Bearer hides her surprise well, Stentor less so —he looks down his nose at the woman, affronted by her blatant disregard of authority. 

“The Athenians are preparing for a night assault,” Lesya says, handing Stentor a scroll marked by the seal of Athens. He unrolls the piece of papyrus and quickly skims over the text, finding what she’s announced to be true. Kassandra and Lesya glance at one another as Stentor paces around the map table, considering the new information.

He looks between Lesya and Kassandra —one goes to war because she must, the other because she craves the thrill. Something in Lesya’s sharp green eyes unnerves him. He’s heard stories from some men about a goddess of war and destruction who can tear through even the most trained regiments. A piece of him wonders if this is the warrior of whom they speak. But as much as Stentor hates to admit it, her prowess will be useful. ‘Prepare for battle,” he declares, and the two sentries move from their post to disseminate the news through the camp. Sparta _will_ take the Megarid from the Athenians today.

* * *

THE SHOCK COMBAT ends quickly. Taking the Athenians by surprise had been a decisive move assuring a Spartan victory. Stentor approaches the two women after the battle is done —now he is certain Lesya is the ghost his men spoke of. He’s never seen a person look so at ease covered with blood. _She fights like Ares, merciless_. A light foot soldier approaches, bows his helmed-head, and turns his attention to Kassandra. “The Wolf has requested the presence of the mercenary,” he announces. 

The general’s son bristles at the thought of leaving his _pater_ with a sellsword. “It appears I have other matters to attend to.” He lifts his chin and turns toward the decimated Athenian encampment. Lesya nods toward where the Wolf awaits —Spartans are not known for their patience. The Eagle Bearer takes a deep breath and moves up the path to confront her father. 

“Don’t think for one second I don’t know who you are,” Stentor growls, approaching Lesya after the _misthios_ is gone. It felt like an insult to fight alongside her after the atrocities she and Deimos had committed against Sparta and its people. His fingers itch to draw the short blade on his belt. 

Her smile is grim and arrogant when she shifts to look at him, eyes darting to his hand hovering over the hilt of a dagger. “Then you know what I’m capable of,” Lesya sneers. The blood in her veins still runs hot from the battle, spilling the blood of a few more men would make no difference. Stentor’s harsh stare falters —he swallows, throat dry, and returns to assess the day’s losses and gains. 

Lesya is gone when Kassandra descends the cliff in haste. The Eagle Bearer glances around the clearing in the forest but does not stop to search when she cannot find the woman. Shaking her head, she continues back to the _Adrestia_ before the Spartans realize what had happened to their general. 

Nikolaos is not on a path to rejoin his men after speaking to his daughter. Lesya intercepts him, making sure there are no lingering eyes. The general meets her steel gaze and recognition flashes across his face but he does not tremble as others do. “You know who I am,” she notes. 

He lifts his chin, tilting his side to the side to size up the woman that had invoked so much fear in his men’s hearts. “My men say you’re a ghost–“ Nikolaos shakes his head “—but you’re just a _snake_.”

“Not anymore,” she bites back. _Your son saved me_. The Wolf can see the pain etched onto her face —she is still so young and had endured so much, just like his own daughter. Lesya looks back over her shoulder, fingers flexing. “The Cult wants you dead,” she tells him —no preamble. His rise through the Spartan ranks was nigh legendary after the tragedy that befell his family on Taygetos. His renown made him a target of the Cult and should he return to his _polis_ , they would seek to eliminate the perceived threat. “Do not go back to Sparta.” It is a warning. 

“Where should I go, then?” Nikolaos asks, skeptical, but he knows if she had been sent to kill him the deed would be done already. 

She looks over her shoulder to the north where Boeotia lies then returns her burning gaze to the Spartan general. “To find the honor you should’ve had that night on Taygetos when both your children _died_ ,” Lesya spits. Time-and-time again she’d witnessed that stormy night on the slope of Mount Taygetos where his children’s lives were forfeit. 

Shock takes hold of his stern expression. “Alexios?” Nikolaos breathes. Kassandra survived the fall, could that mean? _No_ , he shakes his head. He had watched Myrrine cry over the broken body of their son before she fled Sparta. The baby was beyond saving, not even Asklepius himself could have spared the child from the Ferryman. 

_Deimos_ , her heart seizes at the thought of him and a flash of longing crosses her face. “Alive,” she tells him, “but twisted into a weapon.” _Like me_. Lesya does not wait to see Nikolaos’ reaction. She turns back to the western coast of the Megarid. Her mind cannot help but stray back to Deimos —she’d committed the lines of his face to memory and the feel of his rough lips against her. _We should have stayed on that beach_. 

Kassandra is already aboard the _Adrestia_ by the time Lesya returns. “Where were you?” The Eagle Bearer asks, not trying to hide the suspicion in her tone though Barnabas and Reza greet her with a smile. 

Lesya flips one of the bloodstained blades in her hand and kisses the worn leather-wrapped hilt. “Couldn’t leave it behind,” she says, smiling. It’s a lie for the moment, she _would_ have gone back if one of them had been lost. Deimos had been the one to give her the dual blades shortly after their final trail to become champion. Since then, Lesya had not parted with them. 

She joins Barnabas and Kassandra at the helm as the rowers begin to push away from the wharf. “We go to Phokis,” Kass announces, crossing her arms, “Elpenor said he'd meet me there. He owes me money and an explanation.” Lesya masks her surprise at the mention of Elpenor. Kassandra had not mentioned the merchant before, but now Lesya understands. This had all been part of a scheme to get ride of Nikolaos and begin hunting for the bloodline. 

Ikaros sweeps down from the sky with a loud cry and settles upon Kassandra’s outstretched arm. The eagle’s piercing stare makes it seem as if he can see every lie and atrocity Lesya has ever committed. Frowning, she takes her leave of the helm and scales curved bow-post sitting above the gilded ram, looking off over the water as the sun begins to sink low in the sky. 

* * *

“DEIMOS!” ENYO SHOUTS but he does not hear her, nor does he see the brute approaching him from behind —heavy ax lifted above his head. Ramming one of her blades through an Athenian’s thigh, she spins and throws the same blade as hard as she can. It finds its mark deep in the side of the brute and he collapses backward. Deimos dispatches the last of the leader’s guards with a tight slash across the throat. “I had this under control,” she hisses, pulling her blade free with a soft _squelch_. The leader had been wet clay in her hands, a few moments longer and the information would have been hers for the taking. “We were supposed to use stealth,” Enyo reminds him, anger has contorted her expression. 

“And he wasn’t supposed to touch you,” Deimos growls, gripping onto her arm —dark eyes burning into hers. Enyo turns, entering the leader’s villa, this time to purge it of riches. The Cult would put the money and jewels to work fanning the flames of war. 

The journey back to Phokis had not taken long from Achaia. They each sit an offering of gold before the gathered cultist’s feet. “All of Hellas knows what you did!” One of them bellows. Lesya lifts her head and sees it is the only cultist who looks to be a warrior himself. He stands a head taller than Deimos, is wider, and wields a flat mace. “Next time you’ll listen when we tell you to go unseen!” He roars, rearing back to strike Enyo —she’s closest to him. 

Deimos leaps to his feet and stops the mace mid-swing. “Do _not_ touch her,” he spits, ripping the mace from the brute’s grasp and breaking the thick wooden lance over his knee. Quiet gasps and whispers undulate through the massive chamber. The Monger’s face is hidden behind an ivory mask weeping red, but the anger in his soulless eyes is evident. Enyo looks up at Deimos, heart pounding in her ears. 

“This was my doing,” he says, though his tone is no less dangerous. Several guardians force him to his knees before a lit brazier and strip away the gold-and-white breastplate, tearing open one side of his dark _exomis_. Deimos’ fingers dig into his knees when the hot iron presses across his shoulder blade. He will not give them the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. The scent of burning flesh tickles Enyo’s nose as two guardians hold tight to her arms. It was more painful to watch them hurt Deimos than anything they had ever done to her. She wants to scream for them to stop, but that will only make it worse. A cultist with a weak stomach gags then retches —spilling his stomach over the floor. 

“You fool,” Enyo growls, breaking open an aloe leaf and squeezing the clear sap onto the brand. He flinches when she begins spreading the sap, glancing over his shoulder to see her expression is a mix of anger and deep concentration. Catching his tawny-gold gaze, Enyo purses her lips. “Don’t _ever_ do that again,” she tells him, bottom lips trembling. 

He shifts, lifting a rough hand to her cheek. “It was my fault,” Deimos admits, his eyes locking onto hers. Her laurel eyes are as soft as the spring grass. It didn’t matter if it was his fault or not, he’d bear all her punishments. Enyo leans into his hand, turning her head to place a soft kiss in the center of his palm. Deimos watches in a trace that is only broken when she leans forward, pressing her lips against his. 

Lesya wakes with a faint smile, despite the grim memory. Sitting up, she can make out the dark shape of mountains drawing close and the glow of Kirrha’s harbor —filled with ships. She has not been back to Phokis since fleeing for her life and now the future is more uncertain than ever. 


	12. Unearthing the Truth

RETURNING TO PHOKIS is a strange homecoming of sorts. Enyo knows the streets of Kirrha, and the path to Delphi is burned into her memory. Kassandra parts from Enyo and Barnabas in search of Elpenor, agreeing to meet them at the Temple of Apollo to seek the Oracle’s wisdom. The old sailor and disgraced champion fall in the winding queue of pilgrims who have come to seek an audience with the Pythia. It does not take long for Barnabas to strike up a conversation with the pilgrim ahead of them. Herodotos is the stranger’s name, a scholar with a keen like of history from Athens. He regards Lesya with suspicion —rumors speak of a great warrior who bears an uncanny likeness to the woman standing before him. 

The queue shuffles forward and the discussion between the sailor and historian shifts to the Eagle Bearer. Lesya narrows her laurel eyes when he mentions Kassandra’s parentage and the heirloom she carries —the broken spear of Leonidas himself. “Barnabas, perhaps discretion would be wise,” she mutters. 

Barnabas pats her on the back and laughs. “The gods have made me an excellent judge of character,” he remarks, holding Herodotos’ attention. They shuffle forward again, the doors of the temple in view, and are greeted by Kassandra. The _misthios_ slips into the queue and holds her arm level —Ikaros swoops down to perch. Herodotos eyes widen as he catches the half-spear held in Kass’ quiver. 

The eyes of the two black-shelled guards slide around, following their stride. Kassandra and Enyo enter the shady interior of the temple to find the air thick with a cloying sweetness. From low, wide copper sconces mounted on tripods, ribbons of myrrh and frankincense smoke rise like ghosts.

When they come to the Adyton chamber at the heart of the temple, it is nearly dark. Marble likenesses of Poseidon, Zeus, the Fates, and Apollo himself glare down them, uplit by the eldritch gloom of the sconces. Kassandra almost flinched when she saw two unmoving dark-garbed sentries. But more disconcerting was the slumped figure sitting on a three-legged stool in the center of the chamber. She is draped in a long white gown and strings of beads, her wreathed head lolling, lost in the pillars of scented smoke rising from glowing pots on the tiled floor around her.

“Enter into the light of Apollo, the light that illuminates shadow.” The Pythia sighs throatily, gesturing to the gentle glow of the burning pots. “What do you wish to know, traveler?” The Oracle of Delphi is nothing more than a girl, her face still round and gentle, but Enyo knows the Cult has their talons in Apollo’s servant. Her head rolls back, gaze rising to look upon who had come seeking Apollo’s wisdom. “The child on the mountain!” The Pythia exclaims —arms extended toward Kassandra, then her eyes move to Lesya. Fear and recognition overcome her. The Cult had sent one of their champions. 

One guard grabs Kassandra’s shoulders and hauls her away toward the entrance, but none dare touch Enyo. She does not struggle against their hold and Enyo trails after the Eagle Bearer. Another seizes the Oracle and drags her into the shadows at the rear of the temple. Kassandra winces as the stark light of day falls upon her again. “The Oracle is finished for today,” the guard booms over her head as he shoves her outside. A great groan arises from the long queue. 

Kassandra turns to Lesya. “The Oracle knew you,” she says, narrowing her dark eyes. _The guards even feared her_ she thinks, realizing how little she knew about the woman standing before her. 

Lesya shrugs. “I have come here before seeking her wisdom,” she lies. She’d come to the Pythia before, but only to ensure she spoke what lies the Cult fed her and to protect the girl from the vile likes of some of the Cultists. Herodotos joins them, explaining Barnabas had to return to Kirrha after troubles arose with the harbormaster. 

“What will you do now?” The historian inquires, seeing a new spark in the Eagle Bearer’s eyes.

She looks between Herodotos and Lesya. “Hunt for a _snake_.”

* * *

HE RECOGNIZES THE strength and brutality of the kills at once. When paid properly, mercenaries were as silent and clean as assassins, but these men were not slaughtered with discretion. Elpenor rolls one of the Cult guardians over with his foot —mindful not to get blood on his sandals or robes— and grimaces. A dagger is thrust through the metal helmet into bone and entrails bulge from a deep incision across another man’s torso. 

Branches above him rustle, but there is no wind. He swallows and looks up into the olive tree. She perches on a sturdy limb —ornate armor replaced by a simple grey leather and linothorax breastplate with mismatched greaves. “Enyo?” Elpenor enquires. Lesya drops to a lower branch then leaps to the ground, landing in a graceful crouch before straightening. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he tells her with a knowing smile. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” she remarks, glancing at the corpse near Elpenor’s feet. Flies are already circling the dead —soon they will be a feast for crows. Lesya meets his hospitable gaze. Despite his transgressions and role in stoking the flames of war between Athens and Sparta, Elpenor had always been kind to her, ever since she was a scrawny little girl. His kindness will soon be at an end with the Eagle Bearer hunting him. 

“You should return,” he utters, voice dropping to a low whisper, “we cannot rein him in. He grows more unpredictable.” _Power and chaos in one body_. _Everything the Cult needs and everything it stands against_ is how they described Deimos. A weapon to be used and discarded —just like her. Lesya’s jaw clenches. She knows the Cult will try to put him down in time. The thought makes her heart seize. “He cares for you, Enyo,” Elpenor notes. If he didn’t care, Deimos would not have endured the tortures to keep her safe after the others learned she’d gone. 

She looks down at one of the corpses and reaches down, pulling her blade from the man’s chest. “She’s hunting for you,” Lesya announces. Elpenor had been the only one to ever show compassion, to dare show the champions an ounce of kindness. For all he’d done, a warning of the storm coming only seemed fair. 

The merchant nods. He’d offered Kassandra a place among their ranks. She could have stood at her brother’s side. “I know,” Elpenor remarks, drawing in a slow breath. “We will not see each other again in this life, Lesya.” Her head snaps up at the use of her name. “Tell the Eagle Bearer I am waiting.”

* * *

HE’S BENT OVER a table, grinding and bundling herbs when she approaches, sandals crunching on the loose gravel. Besides Elpenor, the healer is the only other person she can think of ask about Deimos. “Lykaon?”

He recognizes the voice, but there is something _different_ about it —it’s softer. Lykaon sets down his pestle and shifts his attention to her. She does not wear the Cult’s armor anymore and the circles that’d once ringed her laurel eyes are gone. Thinking as a physician, this is the healthiest she’s looked since he’d begun tending the champions’ wounds, but he still knows who she is and what she is capable of. “Enyo,” Lykaon utters, voice shaking. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she tells him, lips kinking into a slight smile. Lykaon relaxes and motions her closer to his workstation. She leans her hip against the table and crosses her arms. “I wanted to ask after Deimos,” she admits. “How is he?” The fondness in her voice betrays her stoic expression.

Lykaon’s dark brows furrow but then he begins to understand. Enyo’s absence and the weeping cuts on Deimos’ chest were no coincidence. It had to be close to a year since he’d dressed those wounds. The physician sprinkles a dark herb into the poultice. “Mending, the last I saw,” he notes and notices her brows furrow in worry. “Nothing severe,” the physician assures her. It was only a simple set of stitches and Deimos always healed extraordinarily fast compared to other men. 

She nods her thanks for the small amount of solace and turns to leave before unwanted eyes see them conversing —she refused to be responsible for the physician’s demise. “Wait,” Lykaon announces, arms darting forward and hand wrapping loosely around her arm. “I did overhear there would be a meeting tonight, though.” Lesya suppresses a smile and nods her thanks, quickly leaving the small infirmary in the Chora of Delphi.

* * *

LESYA DARTS FORWARD from the underbrush and drives her sword through one of the scion’s foot and grips onto either side of the dark steel helmet when they fall forward —starting to twist the scion’s head to the right, then a little bit further. By the time the scion sees her face and starts to scream out it is too late. She twists until there’s a _crack_. The head snaps around to face backward then loosely rolls back to the front before lolling to the side —neck hanging at a sickening angle with a shard of vertebrae poking at the underside of the skin. The body flops to the stone floor when Lesya steps aside. 

Torches crackle and spit and every so often she passes chambers hewn from the bedrock. Some bear beds or furniture, but all are empty —even the one that had once been her quarters as a child. Until, from the doorway of one just ahead, a puff of steam spits out, along with a scream that twists her stomach into a tight knot. She slows. A brute of a Cultist is in there, his breathing heavy behind his mask, his shoulders bulging from his sleeveless robe and his arms thick with black, curly hairs. In one meaty hand, he holds a poker over a crackling brazier until it glows white at the tip. _The Monger_. Before him is a withered, broken wretch tied to a vertical frame, head hanging forward, a patter of fluid dripping from his hidden face. Enyo’s back screams and aches at the memory of being strung up and whipped. 

“We hired you to kill Phidias of Athens,” drawls the masked brute. “We paid you well. You botched your work and nearly ended up in the stinking Athenian jail for it. Well, you would have been better off in there, you fool,” he said, grabbing the tied man’s hair and yanking his head back to reveal a face half-ruined. The right side a mess of bloody runnels, the eye socket a gaping black hole. The brute lifts the poker and moves the white tip toward the man’s remaining eye. The man’s eye bulges and darts as if trying to escape his head, but there is no escape. No one escapes the Monger’s punishment, not even the Cult’s beloved champion. With a sizzle and a stink of charring flesh and then a pop, the eye bursts in a splash of white liquid and blood that sprays across the room. 

The armor fits her well, and none pay her a second thought as she joins the ranks of guardians keeping vigil at the entrance of the main chamber. The last cultist to arrive walks with a timid stride, the end of a dark brown braid peeking out from the black robes and mask. _Kassandra_. Lesya can hear the echoes of the conversations —they search for the mother of the Eagle Bearer, believing Nikolaos to be dead but everything goes still and quiet when _he_ enters. 

“There is a traitor in our midst,” he snarls. Lesya’s heart leaps at the sound of his voice, for so long she’d only been able to hear the deep rasping in her dreams. “I count forty-two here, yet how can that be when one of our numbers lies dead in Kirrha?” He lifts a severed head and tosses it across the floor. _Elpenor_. Lesya peers into the chamber, unable to tell which of the masked figures is Kassandra. Deimos’ gold-and-white armor makes him a beacon in the darkness. “Who is it?” he rages, voice like a war drum, pacing like a caged animal. “Remove your masks!” He commands. 

“That is not our way, Deimos,” one Cultist refutes. The Cult had functioned under anonymity since its founding. It worked better that way. 

He turns his gaze to the side and breathes heavily through his nose. “Very well,” the champion notes —the calm of his voice unnerves most. “The artifact will expose them. Everyone will be tested.” The Cultists shuffle back as Deimos lumbers down the steps and into the circle, afraid even if they have nothing to hide. “You,” he snarls, looking at Kassandra —already by the pyramid— up and down. 

Deimos places his hand on the side of the artifact, and Kassandra does the same. Her hand shoots up from the pyramid with a gasp. The Eagle Bearer stares at Deimos as the memory faded. He’s staring back, tawny-gold eyes as wide as her own. There’s no mistaking it. Lesya steps forward, fully looking into the chamber. “Who are you?” He mouths, the question barely above a whisper. He shakes his head in disbelief, lips barely moving. _Kassandra?_ “Go!” He shouts. Kassandra takes a step back, legs numb. 

The champion points to another masked figure. “You!” With a roar, he grabs the back of the Cultist’s head and rams the masked face into the point of the pyramid. There’s a thick _clunk_ as the mask splits and the body slumps. Deimos stands over the unmoving Cultist, pummeling the crumpled mask and face with his fist over-and-over. Some of the other Cultists step back, wailing, but a handful surge forward, stopping shy of intervening. “The traitor is dead!” He proclaims, chest heaving.

The Eagle Bearer backs away —stumbling like a stunned deer, she speeds back to the cave’s entrance. Lesya slips away from her post, following the _misthios_ even though her heart is telling her to stay and confront Deimos. 


	13. Reminders of the Past

LESYA LURKS UNSEEN in the shadows as Kassandra and Herodotos converse about the Cult and what she had learned during the meeting. Now that Nikolaos had been disposed of their attentions were shifting to Myrrine and Perikles —two more obstacles in their pursuit of absolute dominion. Rising from her place in the bushes, Lesya joins the _misthios_ and historian tossing the dark helmet molded into the visage of a bearded man aside. 

Fury is etched into Kassandra’s face as she turns and prowls toward Lesya —a fucking _traitor_. Her fist swings and cuts through air as Lesya steps back, willing herself not to fight, though every fiber of her being is telling her to do otherwise. The Eagle Bearer comes at her quicker, teeth bared and snarling. The resemblance to her brother is uncanny. Lesya steps back again, foot catching on an upturned stone and falls backward into a ravine. Kassandra is there —knee pressed into her torso and one hand pushing her head back in the shallow water, the other holding the point of a honed spear at her neck. “You better start fucking explaining,” she spits, “or I’ll shove my spear through your throat!”

She’d seen glimpses of Lesya with her brother in the pyramid —both garbed in the white-and-gold armor of the Cult and covered in blood. It was unmistakable. Lesya lashes out, throwing Kassandra off her and into a felled stone column like a used rag. As she rises, she begins stripping off the dark steel armor. 

By the time the Eagle Bearer recovers, Lesya has stripped down to her breast-band and loincloth —deep and raised scars displayed to the world’s eyes. Both Herodotos and Kassandra lour at the grim sight. “The Cult had no more use for me,” she snaps, “I escaped.” Not a single scar or mark is the result of her own incompetence in battle, they are all the Cult’s doing. Reminders that she and Deimos were just weapons —disposable in the end. “They tortured us. Look what they did to me,” Lesya says, aggrieved —turning so they may see the mangled skin of her back. “Every monstrous thing we ever did in their name was to protect one another.”

Kassandra had once thought her scars horrific, but they numbered few in comparison to the ones Lesya bore and were likely less painful, too. The Eagle Bearer touches one of the jagged gouges at her hip, sickened. “Help me destroy the Cult,” she says, voice low and dangerous. If they worked together, Kosmos would not stand a chance. “You must know who these people are.”

Lesya shakes her head. “I knew Elpenor and the old priestess, Chrysis.” They were the only two whose faces she knew, the others she only knew by voice. “The others always wore masks. Not even Deimos knows who they are,” she explains, “it is not the Cult’s way.” 

The Eagle Bearer sighs, pursing her lips. She knows Lesya is telling the truth. “Still, we can make them suffer at the edge of our blades. What do you say?” Lesya nods and grasps onto Kassandra’s arm in camaraderie. They will burn the Cult of Kosmos to the ground. 

* * *

HERODOTOS, THE ATHENIAN historian, implores they sail to Andros before Athens. Something happened between him, Kassandra, and the broken spear of Leonidas at Thermopylae and he believes part of the answer may lay on the island. With the historian aboard the _Adrestia_ , they leave at first light, but throughout the day and night, Lesya cannot shake the feeling of being followed. 

The Eagle Bearer departs the ship in one direction, and Lesya goes another —looking for a high vantage point to ease her paranoia. She throws herself at the rock-face and begins scaling up the side. Sweat is beading on her brow by the time she hauls herself onto her knees at the pinnacle and stands. On the opposite side of the island is another ship with black and purple sails emblazoned with two yellow serpents. Her instinct had been right. The Cult had pursued them. 

She may have a blade at her neck, but Deimos has one pressing into his groin. “You should know better than to sneak up on me, Deimos.” Lesya knows now his name is Alexios, but old habits are hard to break. Concurrently, they withdraw their daggers —she turns to face him. _Still handsome_ a voice in the back of her mind whispers though now dark circles ring his golden eyes. Her heart is pounding in her chest. _It’s been so long_. “Why did you follow us?” She asks, breaking the looming silence.

Deimos ignores the question. “You’re working with my sister now?” He crosses his arms —an indignant look about him. 

Lesya shrugs. Kassandra does not trust her, a part of her doubts she’ll ever be able to earn the Eagle Bearer’s full trust after working with the Cult. “I wouldn’t call it that–” Lesya hesitates, she has her own plans for the Cult of Kosmos “–but we have common enemies.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s good to see you,” she adds, lips kinked into a smile. Her mind often wanders to him —how could it not when he’d been a constant presence in her life for so many years.

“I’m supposed to kill you,” he admits. Deimos had feigned ignorance to when or where Enyo had escaped if interrogated by the others for as long as he could. Though when word had reached the Cult informing them their disgraced weapon was in league with the Eagle Bearer, everything changed. Like him, Enyo knew too much and was a threat to progress. At first, the task was appointed to Exekias, but there was only one person capable of putting her down and even then, it could prove a challenge. He holds her laurel gaze and keeps himself from reaching out for her. _We should have stayed on that beach_ a small voice in the back of his mind repeats. 

“But you haven’t–” Lesya steps closer, then leans into him —hands pressing against the dimpled pectorals of his armor. If he wanted to kill her, he would have done so already. Out of instinct, he finds her hips as she presses her lips against the corner of his. He is quick to respond, tilting his head so his cracked lips are fully on hers. One of his hands settles against her cheek, hers slide up to his shoulders. “–and you won’t,” she whispers taking a step back. Deimos curses because she is right and knows it. 

“Go back to your ship,” he mutters, glancing down at the ancient gateway. “I need to speak with her.” Lesya closes the distance between them again, lifting her hand to his cheek —she doesn’t smile, but her bright laurel eyes do. _Until our paths cross again_. Deimos holds her hand in place. Eyes slipping shut until he turns away.

* * *

IT WASN’T JUST the ship that bore Deimos to Andros Enyo spotted, but another at the southern-most part of the island. She moves swiftly through the sandy forest, leaping over felled trees and boulders. The beach encampment is poorly fortified —there is only a single large tent of fading and ripped canvas and scattered cargo from the anchored black-sailed bireme. _Korinna the Chimera_. By the water are two cages with Athenian sailors bound in each. Five guardians keep vigil garbed in the dark steel armor of the Cult. Lesya crouches in the low shrub, grip tightening around the hilt of one of her blades. 

A soft whistle catches the attention of the guardian closest to where she lies in wait. “Who’s doing that?” The man asks though when he catches a glimpse of gleaming metal in the sunlight it is too late. Lesya leaps from the underbrush, driving the blade up and through the base of the man’s chin. Blood gurgles from his mouth and when he begins to slump forward, she pulls the blade back. 

Skirting around the encampment the remaining guardians fall correspondingly —all without a sound. With a twist and a soft _squelch_ Lesya’s blade releases from the fallen man’s eye. She flicks her wrist, sending the string of brain matter caught on the edge into the sand and turns where the Cultist resides. 

The soft reflection of the sun off her drawn blade gives away her presence. “Enyo?” The woman asks, voice trembling as she backs away from the disgraced champion and into a wooden desk at the back of the tent. Deimos had told them she was _dead_. Lesya takes another step —her smile grim and unforgiving. “Guards!” Korinna shouts. No one comes. 

The Chimera reaches behind her, fingers curling around the hilt a small dagger lying on the desk —it will do her no good against destruction incarnate, but she will not die empty-handed. She swings the small knife toward Lesya’s neck. Catching her wrist, Lesya twists until the blade falls to the sand. There is no escaping the champion’s iron hold. “You will die as you lived,” she hisses, pressing the point of the blade into Korinna’s chest. Her dark eyes widen as the sharp tip sinks into flesh, lips falling open with a sharp gasp and scream —groveling for a hold on her killer’s wrists. “Heartless and alone.”

* * *

LESYA RETURNS TO the _Adrestia_ finding Barnabas nervously pacing the deck with the _misthios_ and Herodotos locked in conversation, both wearing a troubled look. Barnabas’ long sigh of relief when he spots her up climbing onto the deck alerts the crew of her presence. 

“Where did you go?” Kassandra asks —abrasive and suspicious— arms crossed. Since her brother absconded the peak, she assumed Lesya had as well. Even if they were to work together against Kosmos, she held no loyalties to the Eagle Bearer. 

An ivory mask —stained with fresh blood— and the golden artifact belonging to Korinna land at the Eagle Bearer’s feet. “The Chimera is no more,” Lesya announces, hands still stained red. Another cultist is dead. 


	14. The Old Ways

ATHENS IS LESS than a day’s journey from Andros and by nightfall, the Port of Piraeus rises from the water with Athens to the east. Kassandra and the historian depart the ship, but Lesya remains, hands curled uneasily around the railing. She has not seen Athens since the night Leandros gave her up to the Cult of Kosmos —an offering of flesh. Barnabas notices the far off look in her eyes and frowns. She had her whole life before her, yet the solemn expression told the old sailor she did not expect to see much more. 

“Lesya?” She looks over her shoulder at the captain, he’d just finished his routine inspection of the deck. There’d be time to allow for a few repairs before departing —the blockage in Megaris had left its mark on the hull. “You haven’t been yourself since Phokis,” Barnabas notes, stopping at her side. Since joining the crew, she’d always been quiet and reserved, but there was something different about her now. In truth, she hadn’t been herself ever since the Eagle Bearer joined them on the _Adrestia_. 

She’s spared Barnabas the horrors of her past and the truth of her identity —she hadn’t wanted the old sailor to regret his kindness. Lesya swallows the growing lump in her throat. She knew the truth would come out sooner or later. “The people Kassandra hunt–” she bites down on her lip “–I used to be one of them.” Turning her back to Piraeus, Lesya crosses her arms, unable to meet the kind, withered gaze of the captain. “Barnabas, I’ve done _terrible_ things.”

“Come now–“ he claps her on the shoulder, smiling “–you’re a good person.”

Guilt consumes her. She’s fooled the old sailor long enough. “But I’m _not_ ,” she says, voice cracking. Barnabas’ smile fades when he sees the tears running down her cheeks, glistening like jewels in the moonlight. He does not understand. “I’ve killed so many innocent people,” Lesya whispers. Good men had died on her blades, and repulsive men had risen because of them. The captain remains steadfast. “I see some of their faces at night. Pleading for their lives.” _I have children, please!_ The pleas had not been enough to stay her hand.

“I don’t sleep Barnabas and when I do–” she shakes her head. Barnabas knows what happens when she sleeps —her cries wake the crew. _Nightmares and memories_. Lesya lifts her gaze back to the port, sweet smoke rises from the Temple of Asklepius. “Kassandra will be safer here if she is not seen with me.” The Eagle Bearer needed information and powerful allies. She would not be able to acquire either of those with a champion of the Cult at her side in a city with so many corrupt leaders. 

The moment of silence is deafening. Barnabas cares not of Leysa’s past transgressions —all he knows is a woman who has been hurt by life and strives to be better. “You will _always_ have a place here, Lesya,” he tells her, hand still resting on her shoulder. “The _Adrestia_ is your home.” Lesya’s shoulders begin shaking. The old sailor pulls her into a warm embrace —she goes stiff, this is not something Lesya is accustomed to, but it feels _nice_.

* * *

WITHIN A FORTNIGHT Kassandra returns to the _Adrestia_ with the sculptor, Phidias, in tow. The Cult of Kosmos has long sought to rid Athens of Phidias —now they intend to do so under the guise of a trial. Perikles has asked the Eagle Bearer to escort his dear friend to safety outside of the city. Seriphos is where the sculptor asks to be taken. He has a friend there in the _chora_ that may even be able to help in their quest to dismantle Kosmos. 

Under a full moon, the _Adrestia_ departs from Piraeus with Phidias aboard, so long as there are no delays, they will reach Seriphos before midday. “ _Kybernetes_!” Barnabas calls and the oars are extended into the black waters of the Saronic Gulf, pushing the trireme out of the harbor. The oars lift from the water before delving back in with the hum of a low war drum. Merchant and war galleys form an endless come-and-go of ships from Piraeus —it’s as if a war is not occurring just outside the gates of Athens. 

Behind them, Piraeus begins disappearing on the horizon. A merchant's vessel approaches on the port side of the _Adrestia_ and a glimmer of gold in the moonlight catches Lesya’s attention. She darts back to where Reza stands at the rudder and scales the sternpost, eyes narrowing. 

Standing at the edge of the merchant galley is a man standing tall and proud in gold-and-white armor —looking back where she is now perched. Her heart stops. _Deimos_. Soon the ship is too small to be discerned from the rising waves in the distance. With a twinge of melancholy in her heart, Lesya descends the sternpost and finds a place among the crew. 

Phidias is loquacious and feels silence must be filled with meaningless conversation. Lesya and Kassandra both avoid the sculptor, only speaking when required or drawn into the conversation between Barnabas and Herodotos. Ikaros dives down from the night sky, perching on the _misthios_ ’ arm —golden eyes judging the disgraced champion from afar. _Damn that bird_ Lesya curses, turning away from the helm. 

She climbs the rigging at the side of the ship —unable to sleep— leaning over the water to look out on the horizon. There is nothing but rippling waves and the silver reflection of the moon. A soft breeze moves her hair, gentler than a lover’s touch. Aeolus is with them this night. “Get that sail down!” She shouts. The deckhands spur into motion, tugging at ropes and knots until the faded sail is unfurled and filled with the warm wind. 

The _Adrestia_ docks in the _chora_ of Seriphos and the sculptor is immediately greeted by his friend, Theras. He looks between the Eagle Bearer and her companion, searching the deep pockets in his robes. “I’ve found some information on a man named Brison who's plotting Phidias's early demise–” he passes a bundle of papyrus scrolls to the _misthios_ , some are marked with the dark wax seal of the Cult. “Hopefully, you can make something of this.”

Lesya bristles at the name and the haunting memory of the Monger standing over a man with gaping eyes, pleading for his mother’s safety. He was meant to kill Phidias but failed in his appointed task. Kassandra takes her pay and leave, joining the captain and historian at the helm. “Brison is already dead,” Lesya announces, uncrossing her arms.

The Eagle Bearer’s brows furrow.

“He’s dead,” she repeats —there was no way he could have survived his run-in with the Monger. Few ever did. He’d even left his mark on the Cult’s champions. “Tortured and killed for his failure to kill Phidias.”

“You’re certain?” Kassandra asks, dark gaze still distrustful. Lesya nods.

* * *

SHE LINGERS AS the congregation of citizens spread out from the Pnyx, having a gut feeling _someone_ is watching her. Lesya does not recognize him until he speaks —and his voice is unforgettable. Before her stands Kleon of Athens, a sage within the Cult of Kosmos and Perikles’ political rival. “Enyo,” he greets hands behind his back, circling her. 

“I’m not a _puppet_ anymore,” she hisses, surmising he will ask something of her. If that was not his intention, then the hoplites stationed around the hill would not be standing vigilant. 

Kleon holds out his hands as if to prove he is not a threat. Enyo claims to be a woman of free will, but her heart is chained to Deimos. A weakness that can easily be exploited. It’s why Chrysis worked so diligently to drive love and weakness out of the champions —why Deimos could be easily manipulated at the mention of her. “Of course not.” The politician’s expression turns grim. “But _he_ is.” Lesya swallows. _Deimos_. The twitch in her lips betrays her. “I believe you’ll do as I ask if it means sparing him from more pain.”

“What do you want?” She snaps, fists clenching at her sides —following Kleon’s gaze to the Acropolis. A testament to Perikles’ devotion to the patron Goddess of Athens. _How many hundreds of triremes could have been built in place of the Parthenon?_ he thinks. 

Perikles has made Athens appear soft in the eyes of the Spartans. Soon they would mount another attack on the city walls. The city could not fall. The war could not be over so quickly —not after the Cult had meticulously pushed Hellas to the verge of chaos. “To show the Spartans outside these walls the Athenians have teeth,” Kleon responds. 

She snorts, derisive and mocking. He is a coward. “If that was true, you’d be the one fighting.” Such impertinence would have cost her tongue had she spoken out during a gathering. Freedom has made her bolder. 

Kleon is not one to fight his own battles. He bristles at the blatant slander then turns to face the disgraced champion. “Kill the commander, Nabis,” he orders. “ _Tonight_.” The politician turns on heel, leaving the Pnyx with a vanguard of hoplites. 

Lesya looks skyward, rage festering deep within her. She wants to scream, to cry out. There’s a simpler time in her memory —she and Deimos had been on a beach with waves breaking over their feet, wrapped in one another. An opportunity to escape, to leave everything behind. _We should have stayed on that beach_ she thinks, withdrawing one of her blades and starting toward the northern gate. 

Under the moonlight, she presents the Spartan commander’s sword and seal to Kleon. He does not doubt her work, for smoke still rises from the encampment, the heavy scent settling in over the city. Taking the blade, he inspects the sharp edge and balance. It is artfully crafted —a fine addition to his growing collection. _Perhaps her usefulness has not run its full course_. “Still follow orders so well,” Kleon muses.

She lunges at the Sage, hands wrapping around his throat —squeezing. Kleon’s eyes widen, fingers clawing at her wrists. “Killing me would be a mistake,” he chokes, panting. Voice already too faint to call for help. Eyes wide in shock and fear. 

“Really?” Lesya challenges with a grim smile and laughter. This does not feel like a mistake. It feels like justice. “Because I can think of several people who’d benefit from your death.” _Me, Deimos, Kassandra, the whole of Athens_. He is a vile man and deserves every ounce of suffering that comes by her hand. 

“He’s here,” Kleon gasps in a desperate attempt to save his own life, “in the city.” Her grip around his neck does not loosen, but she stops squeezing —face morphing into surprise. 

_Deimos_. Lesya drops the Sage and looks down at where he has fallen before her feet, groveling to stand with a hand rubbing at the skin of his neck. _It had been Deimos on that boat_. Kicking him onto his back, she presses her foot into his chest. “Where is he?” But there is no response from the Cultist, only the shuffling of armor as guards move toward the villa. 


	15. Athenian Moonlight

AFTER COMPLETING SEVERAL tasks for Perikles, Herodotos thinks it appropriate for them to attend one of the city’s famed symposiums. All the brightest minds in Athens gathered under one roof —a cesspool of information and gossip from all over Hellas. If anyone knew Myrrine of Sparta or had caught word of her, Kassandra would find it tonight.

The Eagle Bearer offers Lesya the opportunity to attend Perikles’ symposium for her assistance, but too many in attendance could recognize her, and then all of Kass’ work to gain entry would be in vain. She shakes her head. “No,” Lesya tells her, stopping shy of the villa, “you should go alone.” The look of discomfort about the _misthios_ is conspicuous, but she marches forward. 

Lesya watches Kassandra enter the villa then turns back to the dark alley nestled between two smaller homes. A budding premonition in her gut told her they were not alone tonight. Crates of pottery and other goods block most of the entrance, but there’s room enough for a person to fit. Lesya leans against the stone wall, arms crossed. “Stop hiding in the shadows,” she remarks, fighting to hide her smile, “you’re not very good at it.”

Rising from a crouch, he steps into the moonlight —golden armor gleaming. “That was always your forte,” Deimos muses, lips tugging upward on one side. She’d always been the one more apt to use stealth and still held the title as the only person in all of Greece who could sneak up on him. His eyes skim over her face, ethereal in the light of a full moon, then move down her arms and sturdy legs. She still has the look of a fighter. 

Sitting on one of the wooden crates, Lesya studies him for a moment. His tawny-gold eyes are focused on her —still rimmed with dark circles, but there is a larger smile playing on his lips now. Deimos steps up to the crate, placing his hands on either side of her hips. Her heart skips a beat. She has missed him _so_ much. A rough hand slides up her arm, stopping to caress her cheek —his thumb tracing her cheekbone. Her laurel eyes slip shut and only open when Deimos’ hand moves back into her copper hair, still soft as silk. He’s missed her too, more than words could ever say. 

“What are you doing here?” She finally dares ask. It was uncommon for the Cult to send their champions into the heart of Athens or Sparta. There were too many risks if they were caught or recognized, but he stands tall and proud —a demigod. 

His gaze shifts to Perikles’ villa, then refocuses on Lesya —dark eyes boring into her own. “To see if the coward, Hermippos, will carry through with his orders.” Since Brison failed to kill Phidias, the Sages ordered Deimos to oversee the newest appointed task. Hermippos is to taint the wine as many of the Cult’s enemies would be in attendance —it is just a coincidence this happens to be the symposium the Eagle Bearer is attending as well. 

“And if he doesn’t?” Lesya asks. Failure would not be tolerated, that much she knew. Between her and the Monger, Hermippos would be wise to choose the kiss of her blade over the brute and his twisted love for torture. Either way, Hermippos will fall and the Cult of Kosmos too. 

Deimos props his chin upon her shoulder and points to several of the guards patrolling the villa. They are clothed in the armor of Athenian hoplites, but bear weapons marked with serpents of the Cult. “Those guards are not the one’s Perikles pays,” he tells her, warm breath hitting her ear and neck. Lesya shivers. 

One of his arms wraps around her middle, pulling her around to face him again. “I know you were there during the last gathering,” he confesses. It is as though he could sense her presence by the deep aching in his chest. The hand on her waist falls to rest on her thigh. So many moons apart and almost nothing between them has changed. 

“And you didn’t have me dragged forth as a traitor?” Lesya questions —almost teasing— tilting her chin up. 

He snorts. “Would’ve been too easy,” he says, but _I could never betray you like that_ is what he means. 

Lesya’s lips twist into a reserved smile as she raises her hand, fingertips ghosting over the raised scar on his cheek. He wears the mark of her blade proudly. There is a feeling deep down in her chest that frightens her —one she often feels when he plagues her thoughts of late. Silence fills the night. The feeling in Lesya’s chest intensifies with his softened, dark eyes upon her. She pulls back her hand and rises from the crate, circling the champion —needing to do _something_ to distract herself.

“Enyo,” Deimos warns watching as she discards the twin blades on her back. She means to spar with him —a distraction for them both, just like the old days. “You want to lose?” He asks, brow and lips quirking with amusement. A moment later, he unclasps the baldric keeping the Damoklean sword at his hip and tosses it aside —sinking into a boxer’s stance. 

They wrestle in the alleyway, though it looks more akin to a well-rehearsed dance than a fight. Deimos and Lesya know each other too well. Years of training together have made their movements predictable to one another, albeit this is still more a challenge than the few times Kassandra had offered to cross blades with the disgraced champion aboard the _Adrestia_. She may be swift, but he has brute strength on his side. 

He pins her hands against the stone and is transfixed by the spark in eyes —the same spark he sees when he dreams of her. Deimos dips his head forward, eyes flitting from her laurel gaze to her lips, his breath tickling her cheek. “Gods curse you, woman,” he grits out, closing the small gap between them. Her lips are soft and sweet as honey —it takes him back to that night on the beach in Megaris. She reciprocates in full, pushing up into him and smiling into the kiss. 

Lesya bucks her hips up to the side, lips breaking away —Deimos’ back hits the stone and now it is his arms pinned down with her astride him, panting. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, basking in her bright smile. Everything comes crashing down with the _thudding_ of approaching footsteps. She rolls off him, passing up his discarded sword and crouches behind the crates in the alley. 

Hermippos finds the Cult’s champion, red-faced and out of breath. “She drank the wine,” the frail playwright announces, “but left quickly.” The Eagle Bearer slips through the Cult’s hand once more. From her hiding spot, she sees Deimos’ expression twist into anger. 

Deimos paces around the Cultist —a dozen ways to end the wretch before him racing through his mind. He and Enyo could not fail without punishment, but the Ghost had demanded members of Kosmos be left unmaimed by his hand. _A pity_.“You have a ship, do you not?” He asks, looking down his nose, fingers curling around the hilt of the Damoklean sword. Hermippos nods, trembling before the champion. “Then find her!” Deimos roars. The playwright stumbles thrice in his retreat.

“His ship is no match for the _Adrestia_ ,” Lesya remarks, brushing the dirt and dust from her copper hair as she stands. 

He crosses his arms, glaring in the direction Hermippos had fled. “Perhaps that is my intent,” he starts. “To purge the Cult of weakness.” Deimos’ anger fades when he turns back to her. Even now, she is his temper. “Where will go if she flees Athens?” Deimos queries —a piece of him longs to believe she will stay with him. 

There’s something Lesya has meant to do since returning to Athens, but she has been unable to bring herself to do it —or at least now she dares to ask. She turns into his touch. “Help me find my _mater_.” Her voice trembles, this feels like weakness, but Kalanthe deserves to know her daughter is alive. “She’s here in the city.” But the path to the villa is one she cannot remember —can not walk alone. “Deimos, please.” The backs of his fingers brush against her cheek and when his hand falls away, he steps back motioning for Lesya to follow. 

He stops before a villa north of the Acropolis —the home of Leandros. The pale stone is familiar and so are the painted tiles leading to the entrance. Lesya freezes in place, her heart racing. She never thought she’d find herself looking upon her childhood home again. Deimos presses his hand against her back, urging her forward, but Lesya shifts —eyes locking onto his and the strange feeling in her chest comes racing back. “Thank you,” she breathes. Her hand cradles his cheek for a moment before she places her lips on his, soft and slow, but it ends all too quickly. 

Taking a deep breath, Lesya steps forward —ready to face her past. 


	16. These Violent Delights

A WOMAN WITH white hair sits at a loom in the courtyard, combing through the threads of linen —her fingers knobby and withered. Lesya holds her breath as she steps into the moonlight, heart heavy and racing. She was certain she would never see this place again, never look upon her mother and brothers. It does not escape her that Deimos is the only reason she is standing here —within an arm’s reach of the woman who had defended her countless times from a cruel man. “ _Mater_?” Lesya whispers. 

Kalanthe turns on her stool and the color fades from her gaunt cheeks. “No–” she breathes, certain her eyes are playing another cruel trick, but she has only ever known two people to have copper hair and laurel eyes. “Lesya?” Her voice cracks as she reaches out, taking her daughter’s hands to assure herself this was not a dream or a rouse by the gods. Lesya nods, biting down on her lip to keep it from trembling. 

“I never thought I’d see you again.” Her mother cries —fifteen long years had come to pass since that stormy night when everything changed. Kalanthe wraps her daughter in her arms. Lesya goes stiff and with a saddened smile, her mother steps back. The rumors surrounding her daughter were true then. “Why have you come back?” Kalanthe asks, not letting her suspicion betray the joy of seeing Lesya. She has heard the tales from her eldest son of the two demigods who can clear a fortress as though it is child's play, it is rarely a good omen to visited by dread or destruction. 

“ _Mater_ ,” Lesya starts, wringing her hands together, “I want to know about my real father.” She had overheard some of the cultists speak of him, claiming his blood is why she could peer into the artifact like Deimos. Only she was afflicted, for the Cult took no interest in her brothers —save for ridding the Athenian front of Timotheus’ command— or mother. 

Kalanthe remembers the man well —Lesya is a reflection of him, for there is little about her daughter’s appearance that resembles her. He had been handsome and spoke of history as though he were there to witness it and as if the gods were his friends. Akousilaos had come as a weary traveler one night while Leandros attended a symposium. “He approached me right after Timotheus was born.” A wistful smile crosses her wrinkled lips. “There was something about him. Strange but alluring.” _And kind_. Kalanthe lifts her hand, brushing away the copper strands falling before Lesya’s face. “Then the gods gave me you.”

The smile on her mother’s lips fades. “Leandros knew. He took you from my breast and left you outside the city walls for _three_ days.” It had not mattered to him that Lesya had been born bearing the mark of Virgo on her small thigh and hair kissed by fire. The child was a bitter reminder of his wife’s infidelity —born small and weak. He claimed it was a mercy to expose the girl to the elements —a sacrifice for the gods. Kalanthe had pleaded with her husband, but when he threatened the life of their young son, she sank into compliance. 

Lesya shakes her head —rage festering within her at the memory of Leandros. Yet for the moment, she wills it away and finds the courage to ask of her brothers. “Timotheus?” Even after she failed to execute him, the Cult never did send Deimos in her stead. 

“Ostracized for abandoning his post,” Kalanthe tells her. He had shown so much promise as a polemarch in Megaris, but as quickly as he rose in the ranks, he fell. Timotheus was not to return to Athens under pain of death —Kalanthe was not even given the luxury of telling her son goodbye after the trial. Nor had he the time to tell his mother Lesya was _alive_. 

“Little Tityos?” Tityos was a suckling babe when the Cult took her. Lesya remembers helping care for him and that her mother explained it was good practice for when she was married with her own children. Now where a mother’s instinct should be, there is only bitter hollowness. 

Kalanthe shakes her head. “Caught a fever one spring and could not shake it.” Tityos had only seen five winters when she was forced to lay him in a shallow grave beside a stranger. “And Tundareos?” Her mother asks, guessing her daughter’s next question. Lesya nods. Timotheus had mentioned him. “Once he was old enough, he went searching for you,” her mother explains, doleful. “It’s been years since any of us heard from him.” 

Lesya meets her mother’s warm gaze and finds sadness behind her dark gaze. _She’s lost all of her children_ — _even me_. But all the pain can be traced back to Cult and their puppets. “Leandros?” She growls. 

“Don’t Lesya,” Kalanthe warns. She can see the cogs turning in her daughter’s mind and how her fingers flex at her sides, eager to draw the dagger in her belt. It turns her into _Enyo_. 

“I need to face him,” Lesya says —there is no way around this. Leandros will come to see the monster he helped create. 

Her mother draws in a long, steady breath. “He’s at the Odeon of Perikles,” Kalanthe tells her —knowing that once Lesya leaves from the villa, she will not see her husband’s likeness again.

* * *

LEANDROS TURNS FROM the mural to face his bastard daughter —to see the weapon she had become. “Deimos said you’d turn up here sooner or later,” he remarks, voice and temper level. 

“And here I am,” she says, motioning around at the empty theater. Lesya steps toward the corrupt _thesmothetai_ and feels a lifetime of caged anger bubbling up —festering. He had sent her into the arms of the Cult. Every terrible thing that had ever befallen her was _his_ fault. It was his fault she’d become one of the most fearsome warriors in Hellas. His fault Kalanthe had endured so much grief. 

“Do you know what they did to me?” She asks, tone low and menacing. The deep scars on her back sting at the memory, but while physical hurts healed —other wounds did not. “What they’re _still_ doing to me?” Her voice starts trembling, but then a sardonic smile spreads across her cracked lips. “All your sons are either dead, or disappointments and the daughter you despised is the one with a destiny.”

His cold laugh echoes off the smooth walls. “You don’t have a destiny, _Enyo_ ,” Leandros spits. “You’re nothing more than the _bastard_ child who never should have been reared!” Had it been his decision, he would have slit her throat as a babe to save himself a lifetime of embarrassment. 

“It shouldn’t have mattered whether I was your blood or not!” Lesya shouts. “I was a _child_.” The Cult had taken _everything_ from her. 

“I would do it all again and a hundred times over given the chan–” Leandros’ words die on the tip of his tongue. His gaze is drawn down, unsurprised to see Lesya clutching the hilt of a dagger now thrust deep into his chest. Warmth begins to sluice down his trunk as she draws the blade back —red staining the front of his white _chiton_ trimmed in gold. Leandros’ knees give out. His hand coming away gleaming with dark red in the torchlight. 

She grips onto his thinning silver hair and pulls his head back, exposing his neck beneath a long grey beard. Cold rage, vengeance, and instinct drive her. Lesya lifts the bloodied blade to his throat and presses the sharp edge into his flesh then slowly drags the dagger to the right —watching as his eyes widen. The last thing he will see is Enyo smiling down at him. 

His hands leap up to his throat, clawing at the open gash in a feeble attempt to stay the bleeding. There is a brief terrible gurgling as he chokes on blood followed by silence. Leandros’ body lands face first on the marble floor with a _thud_ , red pooling around him. Lesya tosses the dagger next to his corpse and strides from the Odeon. The sun has yet to rise.

Kassandra notices her in the street and the blood on her hands. The Eagle Bearer pulls Lesya to the side in the shadow of the Acropolis, having spent half the night searching for her. In the distance, guards are shouting and people screaming. It is no coincidence. “What have you done?” She hisses. 

Lesya glances down at her hands —bloodied and scarred— then smiles. “I killed my step-father,” she laughs. 

A chill starts at Kassandra’s neck and chases down her spine. A squadron of light soldiers passes them, making their way to the Odeon of Perikles. This marks her first encounter with _Enyo,_ and it is an unsettling one. “Get back to the _Adrestia_ ,” Kass snaps, pushing her in the direction of the port. 


	17. Have Violent Ends

THE WINDS ARE kind and by midday the _Adrestia_ docks in Epidauros. Kassandra and Lesya depart the trireme and bid Barnabas and the historian farewell. They will sail for Korinthia as it is the next destination for the Eagle Bearer after meeting with the physician, Hippokrates, in Argolis. Night looms overhead as the reach the western gate of the _polis_. It has been a long and tiresome trek from the small port, and one taken mostly in silence. Lesya had never been much for conversation and neither was Kassandra —despite their similarities and differences, both women held mutual respect.

People in the streets gawp as they pass by. It is not every day you have the opportunity to look upon not one, but two Amazonian warriors. Finding Hippokrates clinic is easy enough —a line of sick and injured civilians guides their path. Kassandra stops shy of the arching entrance into the clinic’s courtyard and looks over her shoulder at Lesya. On the wind there is a familiar voice of an old crone — _Chrysis_ — and the disgraced champion of the Cult will go no farther.

The Eagle Bearer pushes past those awaiting treatment to a chorus of grumbling and weak shouts, but no one dares impede her path for more than a second. Lesya takes to the shadows at the edge of the clinic and listens to the raised voices. Chrysis is threatening someone who sounds no more than a boy. _Typical_. She keeps low and out of sight —listening as Kassandra and the Priestess of Hera exchange low and harsh words with one another. What is said causes Chrysis to leave in a fury, two guards flanking her side.

Shortly after, Kass emerges from the clinic too. “Hippokrates is not here,” the _misthios_ grits out, pacing with a wrapped parcel in hand. Traveling this far had been a waste. “He’s near the Heraion of Argos treating patients.” Had they known; half a day’s journey could have been spared. 

Lesya nods, giving a small shrug —she has her own things to attend to in Argos and she can tell the Eagle Bearer is eager to be on her way. “Go, I’ll meet you at the Sanctuary of Asklepius by sundown tomorrow.” Kassandra appears skeptical given what happened in Athens, but even if she has a budding premonition of why Lesya wishes to stay, she would not be able to stop her from acting. She turns from the clinic and traces their initial path through the city back to the western gate.

Ikaros perches on the edge of a rooftop, peering down at Lesya though Kass is out of sight. She glares at the golden eagle. He still does not like nor trust her, but she supposes the feeling is mutual. Ignoring the lingering bird, she plucks a small scroll from her belt, moving closer to a brazier to read over it again.

 _My Eyes_ —the letter reads— e _fforts by the Worshippers to resurrect the first true servant of Kosmos, Agamemnon, have failed. All traces of their dark rituals must be hidden by shadow. My eyes in Argos are led by a cunning little banker named Midas. He will clean their mess._ Lesya looks up at the Temple of Poseidon —housed within is the treasury of Argolis— returning the scroll to her belt. The Eyes see all yet they would not see her, only feel the cold bite of her blade.

Posted at each side of the temple’s _pronaos_ is a guardian clothed in the dark steel armor of the Cult. Lesya ascends the _crepidoma_ with her head lowered —fingers flexing in anticipation. “Halt!” One of the guardians shouts. She lifts her head and takes a moment to relish in their fear when recognition washes over them. Before either of them can draw sword, Lesya unsheathes the dual blades on her back and releases them in a single fluid motion. The Cult guardians fall concurrently —one of them with a blade rising from their eye and the other from their neck.

Footfalls echo off the smooth marble floor and vaulted ceiling. Two slim trails of blood drip from Lesya’s blades, reflecting black in the firelight. She stops at the shadow of the great statue of Poseidon. _Forgive this desecration_ she thinks, drawing in a long, slow breath. _It is a necessary evil to spare Hellas from war and corruption_.

Midas blows out a tallow candle at the feet of the dais, rising from his devotions and trembling as he turns. “Enyo.” His voice cracks, eyes darting to the blades held within her grasp —painted scarlet with the blood of his guards. Lesya steps forward and he backward, knocking over the candle and spattering hot wax over the floor. The look in her laurel eyes is one of harsh fortitude. “You–” Midas lifts his arms, cowering “–you would spill blood in this sacred place?”

Lesya laughs —she has killed men in sight of the gods before, this will be no different. “The gods have spilled more blood than Deimos and I combined,” she says with a shrug, “I doubt they’ll even blink.” A cry for help is on Midas’ tongue but turns to a sharp gasp when she thrusts one blade above his right clavicle and the other beneath his left arm —twisting them both.

The Cultist cries out, both his arms limp. Blood begins sluicing down her left hand and arm in warm pulses. Snarling, Lesya rips both blades free. Midas staggers on his feet before falling back against the altar and statue. He fumbles to press a hand to the wound spurting blood beneath his arm, staining his fine robes, and the temple floor as a deathly pallor overtakes him. When she turns to leave the _naos_ , a corpse lays at the feet of Poseidon and a golden artifact weighs heavily in her bloody hand.

* * *

HE IS LEANING against a marble column next to one of the felled guardians, arms crossed with a grim smile. Seeing her here is enough proof she had followed through on the lead he had given her in Athens. “Enyo,” Deimos calls, pushing off the stone and stepping into the moonlight. A dark _chlamys_ hides his golden plate.

She stops midstride and turning on heel. A part of her is unsurprised to see him —they’d made a habit out of finding one another as of late. “What now?” Lesya asks, stepping up to the champion. He looks down his nose at her —the smirk playing on her lips is infuriating.

“You’re going to get caught,” he hisses. Deimos expected her to be discrete, not leave a mangled corpse at the feet of Poseidon. The others would know it had been her who brought about Midas’ downfall. She is destruction and chaos made flesh —his counterpart.

“Am I?” She challenges. “And will you be the one to drag me back to Phokis?” Lesya knows the answer before she asks. He had sacrificed much to help her to safety and keep the truth hidden from the others. They had beat him and worked him like a dog, but he never broke under the pressure and pain. If she returns to Phokis, his suffering will have been for nothing. She cares too deeply for him to let that happen.

Deimos averts his gaze. “Be careful,” he utters. He can only watch her back for so long before the Cult realizes what he is doing. Kleon already sees him like a rabid dog, if they learn he had been the one to supply Lesya with Midas’ whereabouts it would result in retribution.

Lesya guides his tawny-gold gaze back to her —bloody hand resting on his cheek. Her smirk softens into a smile. “You followed me to Argos to tell me _that_?” Deimos does not answer, but there is a deep longing his dark eyes. It makes her heartache and causes that unsettling feeling to rise in her stomach and throat again. She takes another step closer to him, rising to her toes, and places a soft kiss against his cheek —a raised scar tickles her lips.

“Tell them I did it,” Lesya whispers, her words a gentle caress against his lips and jaw. “I want them to know it was me and that I’m coming for them all.” She would not stop till every Cultist had met her blade or Kassandra’s spear. They all deserved death for crimes committed against the Greek world —for what they did to her and Deimos.

His lips twist into a smile —there is something beautiful about the dark glint in her laurel eyes. “Of course, you are,” Deimos replies, stepping back into the shadows as she turns to descend the _crepidoma_.


	18. Ashes to Ashes

LESYA ARRIVES AT the Sanctuary of Asklepius shortly after sunrise after stopping at a stream to scrub the blood from her hands and fade the fresh, dark stains on her pale grey _chiton_. She takes rest in the shade beneath a large oak near the heart of the Sanctuary as Kassandra had yet to arrive —or show herself. 

Deimos dodges her blade but does not move to strike when the opening is created. They are toying with one another like this is a game. The snap of a switch pulls them away from what looked to be a well-rehearsed dance. “You both hesitated,” Alektor announces, snapping the supple switch against the ground with a _crack_. He had seen it in both champions —a moment’s hesitation could mean the difference between life and death in battle. The Cult could not afford to let hesitancy have a place within demigods. “Again,” the trainer instructs.

Sweat beads down both Deimos and Enyo’s foreheads under the hot sun. Their armor is discarded in a pile outside the chalked circle. She levels her sword, tracing his steps as he moves around her like a predator preparing to pounce. He lunges, sword slicing through the air like a viper strike. She spins out of range, then darts forward, flicking her blade upward —the tip cutting into Deimos’ cheek. He stumbles back, lifting his fingers to his cheek to find them coated in blood. The distraction serves its purpose. Enyo uses his bent knee as leverage and leaps into the air —twisting as her legs enclose around his neck and shoulders. 

They both hit hard in the dirt, but it is Enyo who has her knee against his chest and blade against his neck. Deimos looks up at her, panting —blood running down his cheek and back into his hair. “Good,” Alektor praises with drawn-out applause. Enyo rises, tossing aside her blade and extends her hand —he wraps his fingers around her wrist and pushes off the ground. Alektor nods his approval and turns from the training grounds, leaving the champions to themselves for the evening. 

He reclines against the cool stone wall when they return to the villa —ignoring the sweat stinging the fresh cut as he watches Enyo splash water on her face and neck. Wringing out the water of a rag, she goes to his side and scrubs away the blood on his neck and clinging to the stubble on his jaw. Deimos’ lips twitch, tugging into a half-smile when he drags Enyo into his lap —hands lingering on her bare thighs. “Didn’t mean to draw blood,” she admits, noticing her blade had cut into his brow too as she dabs the drying blood away. 

“I’ve had worse, you know,” Deimos remarks. She laughs softly at that, the sound reverberating through her chest so that he could not only hear but feel it too. They had both had far worse than scratches. He thinks she is beautiful, skin still flushed from training with sunlight streaming through the window lattice. Her laughter combined with the sun across her skin and strands of hair framing her face —it makes him smile so genuinely that he is sure he must look a fool. But as she dips her head to press their lips together, fingers ghosting across his skin again, by Zeus, he could not care less.

* * *

WHEN SHE WAKES in the early afternoon, it is to the sound of a woman sobbing and pleading with the priests and priestesses for her sick baby. They claim the boy has passed on, but Enyo has seen how this story plays out time and time again. Priests lie, Chrysis claims another child and the Cult gains soldiers who endure a lifetime of torment. 

Lesya rises, unsheathing one of the blades on her back and approaches the squabbling priests. “Let her see the child,” she demands and does not have to speak again on the matter. The doors to the building open and the distraught mother races forward, lifting a squalling babe from the table and to her breast. 

A swell of anguish rises inside her as she looks upon the mother and child, but it is all consumed by a bitter emptiness. _They took everything from me_. Lesya closes her eyes and remembers the pain and the blood. The room had been dark, lit by a single brazier. A group of masked figures surrounded the stool. Only the twisted physician did not cover his face. Chrysis’ laugh had been unmistakable when they tore out her womb —it was the final step to become the Cult’s Champion. For a second time, Deimos had found her lying unmoving in a puddle of blood. He had carried her from the antechamber and refused to leave her side until the next full moon over a fortnight later. 

She recognizes the physician though he does not know her. “Hippokrates?” Lesya queries, stepping up to the table where there is an array of herbs and oils. He does not frequent the sanctuary often as many consider his methodologies impious, but it is a quicker journey here than to Argos for the assortment of herbs he needs to continue treating patients near the Cave of Pan. 

The physician turns —eyes quickly skimming over the woman though he finds no indication of sickness or injury. “What ails you?” He asks. 

Lesya thinks about the mother and child and knows this is folly. “I,” she starts but then shakes her head, “it’s nothing.” 

Hippokrates has heard rumors from the soldiers he’s treated of a demigoddess who bears an eerie resemblance to the woman before him —copper hair and laurel eyes and something harsh and cold in her expression. He is certain this is Enyo, a weapon for the Cult of Kosmos. 

But now, her expression is softened, filled with pain and longing. The physician looks over his shoulder, following her gaze to a mother and child. “They took your choice,” he surmises and Lesya nods, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I know what you seek,” Hippokrates tells her, “but I cannot help you nor can any other physician.” What was done could not be undone unless by the hand of Asklepius and Eileithyia.

* * *

KASSANDRA DISPELLS WHAT she has learned from Hippokrates and the priests in the sanctuary upon finding Lesya wandering about the Epidauros sanctuary temple at dusk. Everything brings her to a single conclusion. The priestess, Chrysis, had lied to Myrrine that night about her son’s death and taken Alexios as her own —turning him into Deimos, a weapon. “You must know something, Lesya,” the Eagle Bearer pleads, remembering she had mentioned the old priestess before. 

She looks at her hands —Midas’ blood still stains her nails. It has been many years since Chrysis had brought her children to Argos, but the path through the forest is ingrained in her memory. “There’s a temple on Mount Kynortion near the Altar of Apollo Maleatas,” Lesya announces, “she takes the children there.” Kassandra nods, clasping Lesya on the shoulder in thanks. They have work to do before the sun rises. 

Splayed out on the altar is a dead eagle —a warning. Ikaros lands on the feet of Apollo, staring down at his butchered kin before taking to the skies again. In the still air, both Lesya and Kassandra can hear the piercing cries of a child. _The Temple_. Lesya motions for the Eagle Bearer to follow —they both creep through the underbrush, keeping low and out of sight. 

Before the small temple are two Cult guardians and within is the child. Kass frees the curved bow on her back and nocks an arrow, aiming at the man furthest from their position. Lesya keeps her attention focused on the other. The arrow sails through the air, finding its mark in the neck of the guardian, a second later Lesya bursts from the underbrush —dual blades moving in a fury. She straightens, and the severed head of the last guard rolls off his shoulders to the ground. Each of them had fallen without a sound. 

Kassandra kicks open the doors to the temple. The air is heavy the scent of herbs and myrrh and lying on the altar is a babe crying for its mother. Chrysis stands above the child —knife in hand— when her gaze is drawn to Deimos’ sister and her _child_. “Killing seems to run in your bloodline, oh mighty Eagle Bearer,” the old crone rasps. 

The _misthios_ takes another step into the small temple, but Lesya is rooted in at the doors —frozen with ire. Her feet are only spurred into motion by a burst of flames licking at her skin. Chrysis flees, leaving the child to perish in the fire. Kass scoops up the baby and Lesya bounds through the heat, seizing the knife the priestess had wielded —she is not yet out of sight, out of range. Lesya rears her arm back, launching the short dagger into the air. It catches Chrysis’ calf and sends her headlong into the dirt. “Is this how you repay me for what I made you?” Chrysis screeches, but it turns into a sharp scream when Lesya twists the blade, pulling it free from bone and muscle. 

The Eagle Bearer stands over Chrysis now too, but her gaze is focused on Lesya. There is dark hatred and hunger glinting in her green eyes mirroring how she’d looked after slitting Leandros’ neck in Athens. This is the woman who caused so much pain for her and Deimos —the monster who stole children from families and tormented them until they died or were turned into a hollow shell. The Eagle Bearer steps aside, keeping her sandal on Chrysis’ torso should the old priestess try running from her fate. “You deserve this more than I do,” she notes and Lesya nods, fingers curling around the bloody hilt of the knife.

The old crone laughs at her lost child —trying so hard to become something she isn’t. “Even though you try running from it, you can’t. You’re a killer,” Chrysis hisses, “that’s what I made you.” Lesya’s face twists in anger as she crouches down. _Shame Deimos can’t be here to see you die_. “You can use a spear as a walking stick but that does not change its nat–” Chrysis’ words are cut off with a spray of blood. 


	19. Value of a Moment

THE EAGLE BEARER sits tall astride a chestnut steed named Phobos. Lesya has procured her own silver mare from Argos and decides to name her after the moon goddess —Selene. The road to the Land of Beautiful Corruption is one the former champion has traveled before, though Deimos had been at her side then. “Have you ever been to Korinth?” She asks, sparing a glance at the _misthios_. 

Kassandra shakes her head —up until meeting Barnabas she had not left the shores of Kephallonia since washing up on the shore. “I haven’t. You?” She counters. 

Lesya grimaces but does not lie. “A few times,” she answers. It always ended in bloodshed —raiding the Akrokorinth fort, pulling the strings of the Monger’s puppets, sabotaging the Spartan supply line, and Athenian camps. Deimos and Enyo had shed enough blood in Korinthia to paint the steps of the great Temple of Aphrodite red. 

“What did you do in Argos?” Kassandra is curious about what happened, especially as Ikaros was more distrustful of her now than ever. Lesya tosses a bloodstained letter to her and watches the confusion spread over her countenance. _Midas_. _Agamemnon_. _Kosmos_. A clue that had led Lesya straight to another Cultist. “How did you find this?” It does not matter though, not really, Midas is slain and the Cult’s efforts to resurrect Agamemnon have failed. 

She swallows the lump growing in her throat and glances ahead, finding where the flagstone road leading from Argos ends. “Deimos gave me that letter,” Lesya tells her, avoiding looking anywhere else but the road. Somehow, he had known her path would lead her to Argos and Midas. Sparing a glance, Lesya can see Kassandra’s confusion has not ebbed. She recalls the tales Chrysis told them as children, lies they so vehemently believed —about peace and order, about a true king, about Kosmos and his servants. “Kosmos is the Cult’s ideal of peace and order,” she begins. “They believe Agamemnon was the first servant and sought to return him to this world to lead Hellas into a new age.”

The explanation leaves Kassandra with more questions than answers, but she does not dwell on the mythos of the Cult. “Why would Deimos give you this?” Kassandra asks, holding up the scroll. She has only faced her brother once on Andros and he had been committed to serving the Cult’s will —even at the cost of destroying family. 

Kass watches as Lesya’s jaw clenches. She has seen the scars on the disgraced champion's trunk and has heard whispers of the stories behind them from Barnabas. The Cult is cruel —she imagines it is not such a different story for Deimos. “There’s only so many times you can kick a dog before he snaps,” Lesya responds, her voice tinged with bitter hatred. Squeezing the sides of her mount, Lesya rides ahead of the _misthios_. Kassandra lets her be. 

* * *

WATER SLOSHES OUT of stone tub and onto the smooth floor. A trail of bloody armor and stained clothing starts in the villa courtyard and ends at just shy of the growing puddle of water. Enyo runs her finger’s through Deimos’ beard —dark and thick. She still finds it strange to see him with one. They have been on an assignment in Makedonia for over a moon and scarcely had time to bathe, let alone groom. “You don’t like it,” he surmises, lips kinking into a smile —he’s not particularly fond of it either. 

“I could get used to it,” she counters. Deimos reaches over to the small table, pushing aside an assortment of sweet-smelling oils in stone vials and picks up a curved copper razor. He settles against the side of the tub, stretching out his legs —thighs and calves corded with muscle— and tilts his head back. Enyo takes the razor from his hand and moves forward, straddling his waist. She is far more patient than him and if her steady hand works the blade he is less likely to come away with nicks and cuts. 

Pulling the skin of his neck taut, Enyo moves the razor up in short, quick strokes. His eyes slip just and his hands busy themselves following the gouged scars on Enyo’s back. A lullaby plays in her mind, one she remembers from childhood —her mother used to sing it. Now though, Enyo hums the same broken tune, never breaking concentration. And for a moment, it’s difficult to think this is the same woman who could cleave a man in two, who relishes in bloodshed and the cries of her enemies. 

Sitting back up, he stares at her —unabashedly— trying to memorize everything. The curve of his lips, the pattern of freckles on her cheeks, how her brow furrows when she focuses on a task. Deimos knows they walk along a path narrower than a knife’s edge, teetering between life and death. Enyo has come close to death twice, each time he has found her in a pool of blood —terrified at the thought of losing her. Lost in thought, he does not notice she has set aside the razor until he feels the soft-tingling of lemon balm. Tawny-gold eyes slip shut when her fingertips brush over his smooth neck and jaw again —opening only when he feels the soft caress of her lips against his. 

Deimos wakes on the deck of the ship in a cold sweat —heart pounding. Sitting up, he wipes the sweat from his brow then runs his hands over his face, pausing at the coarse stubble on his jaw. Pushing aside the memory, he rises and moves to the bow of the war galley. The horizon is still dark, as is the churning sea. A flash of lightning erupts in the clouds, illuminating the faint outline of land in the distance. Before morning, he will be back in Phokis —waiting to do the Cult’s bidding once more.

* * *

AT SUNDOWN, LESYA and Kassandra veer off the road and into the forest. Thieves and renegades often patrol the roads during the night. Besides, if they leave at sunrise Korinth will be on the horizon before midday and neither of them has slept in two days. The Eagle Bearer stares into the flames but her gaze soon moves up to Lesya —she is fletching arrows as a distraction. Kassandra bites down on her bottom lip again, albeit the question on her tongue still slips out. “What is my brother like?”

The question hammers a stake through Lesya’s chest —she drives the last arrow into the ground and studies the lines of her palm. “Deimos is not your brother,” she tells Kassandra. Deimos is a weapon, a demigod, a _lie_ , just as Enyo had been. Even Lesya knows deep down that Deimos is beyond saving, but _Alexios_ is not. _Alexios_ , for a moment she is lost to distant memories, tender touches, and soft kisses, _Alexios is a good man_. 

“I _will_ save him from the Cult,” the Eagle Bearer states —she will see her family reunited, no matter the cost. 

A melancholy smile pulls at Lesya’s lips —she will save Alexios, not Deimos. Kassandra’s question remains unanswered. Drawing in a slow breath, Lesya struggles to find winds. “He’s angry and erratic. Proud and stubborn,” she remarks. Those traits were not unique to Deimos, but few harbored them the same way as him. The _misthios_ finds herself fighting back a small smile —she can hear the affection in Lesya’s voice when she speaks of Deimos. 

“He has the capacity for kindness, though. We looked after one another for years.” She thinks of the times he tended to her wounds —even if they were minor. He had always been gentle, careful, and attentive. When she closes her eyes, Lesya can still feel the soft caress of his hand against her cheek and the tingle of his lips brushing against hers — _I miss him_. “He was all I had,” her voice cracks. “I dread to think of what the Cult has done to him.” The few times they have been together had yet to feel like the right time to ask what happened after she left. 

Ikaros glides from the night sky, perching on a felled branch near Kassandra —preening his feathers. The Eagle Bearer frowns, brows furrowed. Lesya answers the question forming on her tongue before she can speak. “They thought I made him _weak_ –” she laughs, they had always been stronger together. Apart from each other Deimos and Enyo were deadly, but together they could topple nations. “Elpenor warned Deimos of their plan to kill me and he helped me escape.” The memory of fleeing that night is still fresh in her mind even if nigh three years have passed.

Kassandra says nothing, though she wears a deeply troubled expression. Lesya stokes the fire back into flames and places several more pieces of wood on the embers. Since Kass had spoken her intentions of traveling to Korinth to speak to Anthousa, Lesya has not been able to shake the feeling in her gut that they are walking into an intricately laid trap. The _hetaerae_ may have the love of the people, but it is the Cult who controls the city. “The Monger controls Korinth,” she says —a warning. “We have to be careful.” She has seen and felt the Monger’s wrath before. 

“Why?” The _misthios_ counters. _The Monger_ — _Deimos_ — _all the Cult will fall in time_. She does not understand what makes the Monger so special to warrant fear from the former champion. 

Tugging the belt on her waist aside, Lesya pulls up the hem of her _chiton_ revealing a discolored and disfigured patch of skin at her hip. A brand. Bound and gagged, the Monger had pressed the poker into her hip, forcing Deimos to watch as the scent of burning flesh filled the air. A target had slipped under their noses in a night raid and such a failure had to be penalized. 

Kassandra’s face twists into anger. “Deimos bears the marks of his iron too,” Lesya breathes, knowing the brands he endured at the Monger's hand had been to spare her from pain. He had taken the punishments without flinching or crying out and never complained. _I’d do it over again_ Deimos told her one night while small waves broke on the shoreline, brushing against their legs


	20. Fanning the Flames

ANTHOUSA GLANCES AROUND the Spring of Peirene with a caution. It is not only the Monger’s spies she must watch for, but prying eyes belonging to Kosmos as well. Korinth is a gold mine of information from across Hellas and among the prime brokers are the city’s famed _hetaerae_. Anthousa has seen too many of her girls fall, though, and stopping the Monger was only the one part of ridding Korinthia of corruption. 

Lesya knows what must be done, even if Kassandra is hesitant about becoming too involved with Korinthian affairs when the Cult still hunts her mother. “We have to put out their eyes!” she hisses and Anthousa nods her agreement. Cutting off the supply line of information would leave the Cult blind and vulnerable. It would take years for them to reestablish the same scale of network for trading secrets. 

The Eagle Bearer will hear no more from the _hetaera_ , instead, she turns from the spring and to the city —intent on finding a weakness in the defenses around the Monger’s warehouse. “Two of my girls are missing,” Anthousa says quietly, already fearing the worst. “We’ve heard rumors of where they are in the city, though.” The rumors speak of a vile and sadistic place, one where few leave with their lives. Lesya looks over her shoulder —Kassandra is already gone. 

“Tell me,” she starts, knowing she will enjoy thwarting the Monger’s plans. “I’ll see them to safety.” Finding the Abron House north of the Temple of Apollo is easy enough. Deciding whether to use stealth to her advantage or create a bloodbath is less so. The home is heavily guarded —too many to take at once when she can hear strangled cries coming from within the villa. 

Dropping down between a line of flowering hedges, Lesya prowls along in the shadows. Ahead is a guard, his armored shadow visible over the hedge-line. Pausing behind the armed guard, she springs to her feet —covering his mouth and thrusting one of her blades into his neck before dragging the corpse back into the thick foliage. 

Another shout leads her deeper into the compound, sliding along walls and shadows —quickly dispatching those standing in her path. By the time she reaches the source of the muffled shouts and screams, a trail of blood and bodies lie in her wake. They never saw her coming. Never stood a chance. 

The man looming over the two _hetaerae_ brandishes a small whip with a dozen leather tails. Their faces are bloody, arms covered with purple welts. He does not notice the approaching shadow until it is too late. One of the girls screams when she sees the blood-slicked blade emerge from their tormentor’s chest. He drops the whip, sliding to his knees —gasping for air and struggling to stem the blood sluicing down his front. Pitiful wheezing turns silent when Lesya sheathes the bloody blade, gripping both sides of his head and twisting until there is a _crack_ and _pop_. The Monger’s puppet falls forward, dead. 

Kneeling between the young girls, Lesya slices the ropes on their wrists and ankles. “Can you both stand?” Both girls nod. “Walk?” Another nod. If it meant freedom, they would _run_. They both stand, steadying each other. “Here–” Lesya presses two short knives into their trembling hands —taken from the torturer’s corpse. There are still guards patrolling the property and only one exit from the Abron House. “You both need to run, but just in case, stick them in the soft bits,” she tells the girls while reaching behind her to draw the second blade on her back. 

She leads the way, past the destruction and devastation, but gathered in the courtyard are several of the guards —standing over a corpse of their brethren. Lesya lurches into battle without hesitation, carving a narrow path to freedom, but the girls do not take the opportunity. Growling, she grips onto the spear lance of one brute and thrusts it forward into the neck of another. With a tight spin and she takes another’s head. 

Lesya leaps over to cut the flank of one guard who is locked in combat with the nearest girl, then spins to chop clean through the shin of another. “Go,” she shouts at the girls, stabbing a finger toward the Temple of Aphrodite. “Get back to Anthousa.” The girls blink through tears, nodding and scrambling away, mouthing words of gratitude. She throws one of her blades into the back of the brute attempting to pursue them. 

The distraction and opening earn her a bloody lip and nose. Spitting, she picks up both her blades and glances around at the six thugs encircling her, laughing. _I’ve missed this_ she thinks before charging toward one of the brutes with a feral cry —dodging his blow and slicing a deep line up his back. _Finally, a challenge_.

* * *

KASSANDRA IGNORES THE wail of pain when Lesya bashes the last of the Monger’s men’s head in against the corner of a wooden crate —a splatter of blood and brain erupting. Her attention remains on Brasidas, a Spartan General who had met them in the blazing warehouse, though he is taken by the display of brutality and how familiar it feels. Shaking his head, Brasidas returns his focus to the Eagle Bearer and the discussion of how the Monger should be dealt with. “Do this discretely,” the Spartan beseeches. 

The clatter of iron on stone draws both their attention back to the crackling embers and billowing smoke. Lesya cracks her knuckles, appearing next to the pair of Spartans. Her face is contorted with ire —the Monger does not deserve a quick death. “The Monger should be strung up for all Korinth to see,” she grits out, “he deserves to _suffer_ for all the pain he’s caused.” If she had her way, Lesya would flay him alive —the same torture he used on _hetaera_ who would not speak against Anthousa. 

“Lesya,” Kassandra warns, her voice low —dangerous even. When her gaze returns to Brasidas, she is surprised to see a pallor has washed over his face and now there is deep-seated hatred in his dark eyes. “I know you,” he starts, fingers flexing at the thought of brandishing his spear. “You’re one of the ghosts my men speak of.” He has witnessed firsthand the carnage left behind when Dread and Destruction strike. “You’ve killed dozens of Spartans!” The general spits, venomous. 

Her laugh is derisive. “Have I?” Lesya mocks. “I thought it was hundreds by now.”

Brasidas comes to close to losing his composure —the pallor on his cheeks is gone, replaced by Spartan red. Kassandra’s head snaps in Lesya’s direction, her face pinched with anger. “ _Leave_ ,” the Eagle Bearer hisses from behind clenched teeth. 

Seething, Lesya walks away from the pair and is stopped by a ragged-looking boy —skinny and pale. “He says,” the boy starts, voice trembling, “come meet him in the Sacred Cave under the temple to end it.”

* * *

THE DENIZENS OF Korinthia wake to a dark pall of smoke. They emerge from their homes, nervous and shy, then confused when they hear the spreading rumors: the dockside warehouse had burned to the ground in the night. More, all have been summoned to the theater that day —which had been closed ever since the Monger took the reins of the city. Slowly, they began trusting the heralds who repeat the summons. By noon, the theater is filled, with more on the nearby rooftops and higher streets, peering at the stage.

The Spartan General left soon after the warehouse was set alight —returning to Sparta to carry the news to the two kings. _When you do this, Kassandra_ he had said, _throw the Monger’s bones into the water and let that be the end_. But Lesya would not let it end like that. She tied a rope around the brute’s ankles, parading his corpse through the streets to the theater. 

An orator strolls across the stage, telling all the city is once again free. Voices rise in confusion and disbelief, many looking around to be sure that this is not a ruse by the brute to weed out dissenters. Kassandra watches from the stage as Lesya appears at the top of the steps splitting the theater in two, beginning a slow descent for the people to see. 

A collective and horrified intake of thousands of breaths brought silence as she strode forward, pulling a mangled corpse —both covered in blood. Behind her, Anthousa follows with her head high despite her pleas for a public execution. Lesya drags the Monger onto the stage and throws the rope over the lintel above her. With a great heave, she hoists the corpse up and secures the rope around one of the timber frames. The brute sways for a time, then slows, hanging at a standstill —drops of blackened blood still dripping from his mouth and wounds. 

Masses surge into wails of joy as Anthousa takes the stage, repeating what the orator had already proclaimed, but coming from her honeyed voice somehow feels _different_. Kassandra glances at Lesya —shocked to find a cruel, maniacal smile twisting her lips, but the _hetaera_ moves to her side, leaning in. “Your mother sailed from here on the Siren Song,” said Anthousa over the crowd, “she traveled to the Cyclades.”

* * *

STORM CLOUDS GATHER over the city, turning the seas inhospitable. Ikaros had only just returned before the downpour began, bearing news from Barnabas. Even with the rough storm, the _Adrestia_ is still set to arrive before the day’s end. Though now the Eagle Bearer and Lesya sit atop Anthousa’s home. All Korinthia is indebted to them, it was the least the _hetaera_ could offer —shelter, a warm meal, and a bath. Kassandra still wears her worn leathers, but Lesya’s blood-soaked _chiton_ had been taken to wash and is replaced by a thin lilac _peplos_. The _misthios_ cannot help but notice it is a good color for Lesya’s laurel eyes and copper hair. 

Events from the night and morning replay in Kassandra’s head —reminding her of _Enyo_ and the destruction and death she wrought upon the Monger and his men. But now, sitting across from a low brazier, she believes Lesya looks tired and broken. Killing Chrysis and desecrating the Monger’s corpse had brought peace for only a few moments until it faded back to hatred and longing. “What did they do to you?” She dares ask. The scars upon her flesh speak of the horrors even if they do not tell the complete story. 

Lesya laughs, a low, dark rumbling from deep in her throat as she recalls every horrid thing the Cult had ever done. “What _didn’t_ they do?” She counters. A moment passes, the bitterness and anger consuming her turn to pain. She wants to cry and scream, but Enyo will not let her. “Have you ever dreamt of a simple life, Kassandra?” The Eagle Bearer hesitates but gives a slow nod —she has thought of one many times and how different things may have been if not for that night on Taygetos. 

“A small home in the countryside or by the sea.” Lesya muses, sadness in her voice and a distant look in her eyes. “Children laughing. Teaching them how to hunt and fish.” Kassandra nods again. “It was my dream too. Ever since I was a little girl.” Kalanthe always said she would make a good mother one day, but that had been before the Cult sunk their talons into her, twisting and molding —creating a weapon. 

“Even after my father gave me to the Cult, I held onto a shred of hope that one day I could have a simple life.” The closest she’s come to the dream again had been that night with Deimos on the beach. She squeezes her laurel eyes shut. _We should have stayed on that beach_ she tells herself over and over, a single tear running down her cheek. “They took that dream from me,” Lesya grits out, nails digging into her palms. _And now I will take life from them_.

Kassandra’s dark eyes widen upon the realization of what had been done. The Eagle Bearer glances at her own hands, feeling a wave of sympathy for the disgraced champion. She knew the Cult was cruel, but _that_ , she could not begin to imagine the pain. Lesya watches Kass’ expression shift, her frown turns to rage in a heartbeat. “I don’t want your pity, _misthios_ ,” she spits. 

Lightning flashes across the dark sky. Kassandra rises, moving toward the staircase leading back down to the night’s festivities. She looks over her shoulder before descending. “We sail at dawn,” she announces. Kassandra cannot be sure if she will see Lesya aboard the _Adrestia_ come the morn. 


	21. Korinthian Night

POUNDING RAIN AND rough seas delay the _Adrestia_ from arriving before dusk, but when they dock, Barnabas gives the men a night to themselves. Many of the crew are at the _porneion_ for the night and Kassandra returns to the Akrokorinth to have more time with the orphan girl, Phoibe after their awry talk. Lesya spends her last night in Korinth beneath the awning on top of Anthousa’s villa alone, listening to the rain and watching lightning streak against the dark sky. A bright flash illuminates a dark figure pulling itself up onto the roof. “What are you doing here?” Lesya asks. The outline of his physique is unmistakable. 

Deimos nears the lanterns lining the perimeter of the pallet of pillows —he is soaked. Water drips from his matted hair, his dark grey _chiton_ is almost black. His lack of armor is surprising. “I–” he starts, but then shakes his head. “Heard you and my sister were giving the Monger trouble.” They’d sent him across the Gulf of Korinth shortly after the Monger had left Phokis after hearing rumors —insurance Kassandra and their estranged weapon would be dispatched.

“He’s dead,” Leysa informs him, though he likely already knows that. Korinth may be free of the Monger’s terror, but Cult spies still crawl over the streets. Fitting for a city with no morals, to begin with. He’d report back with the news and tell them his sister had already fled. 

“A knife in the dark?” He asks, having seen his sister and Lesya’s handiwork on display in the theater while making his way to the villa. A public execution would not have been as clean, and the streets would likely still be in an uproar. 

_Wish I coulda been there to watch Deimos break your neck,_ he’d told the Eagle Bearer _and watch him smite this traitorous whore._ Lesya’s expression hardens as she nods. “Kassandra’s choice.” Kass had sided with the Spartan, Brasidas, over Anthousa. “I wanted him strung up in the theatre.” That earns her a dry laugh from Deimos as he shakes the water from his hands. It did not matter if she called herself Leysa now, a streak of cruelty would also lay within.

She and the Monger had never gotten along —not since he threatened to bring her to his _andron_ to teach her a lesson and she’d broken his nose. Deimos almost had the man’s head after he struck her across the face. Lesya shudders, the things he had done to some of the _hetaerae_ still makes her skin crawl. She tosses Deimos a linen blanket and he pats his arms and legs dry then tousles it through his ornamented hair. 

He lays the wet linen aside and moves closer to Lesya, eyes blazing with warmth. “I killed Chrysis too,” she says, tone flat, emotionless. The Cult already received word of that too —Deimos had been there when the masked man stormed across the center of the chamber and hurled down a bloody and torn scrap of fabric. _Chrysis was found in the woods_ , the Cultist announced, _the wolves ripped most the meat from her bones_. They hadn’t been able to say how she died, but Lesya wears a grim smile. “Slit her throat, the bitch deserved it.”

Deimos lips twist into a smile, his eyes tracing the lines of her face —softened by the firelight. “She did, didn’t she?” Chrysis had fed them lies for ages, warped their worldview, and helped forge them both into weapons. There is a scratch on her cheek from the Monger’s warehouse and Deimos cannot stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the slim, bumpy line. His thumb drops down, tracing over her lips. 

Lesya’s eyes slip shut —she leans toward him. Months could pass but it never felt that way when they were back together. “Deimos,” she murmurs. Soft and warm breaths dance over her parted lips, his nose brushing against hers. She wants him, but her heart is so _tired_. Lesya presses her hand against his chest but does not push him away. “We can’t keep playing this game.” Eventually, they will get caught. Either by the Cult or Kassandra, and Lesya dreads losing the small budding friendship between her and the Eagle Bearer. And yet, this is _Deimos_ , he knows her better than anyone in the Hellas. 

“Why not?” He challenges, eyes darting over her face. Lesya does not have a good enough reason and he knows it. The hand on his chest twists into the linen of his _chiton_ and she hauls him forward, lips crashing against his. Deimos shoves the hand resting on her cheek back into her hair —destroying the few coppery strands clinging to the remnants of a sloppy, damp braid. 

Pillows cushion her head when he shoves Lesya back and shifts, pressing his knee between her thighs —lips never parting from hers until she pushes back on his broad shoulders. He looks feral against the backdrop of a stormy night. Deimos gathers both her hands in one of his, pinning them above her head. “I hate you,” she gasps as his mouth moves across her neck and his free hand slips beneath the _peplos_. His lips kink into a smile as he busies himself with stroking one of her breasts, bringing her nipple to a taut peak. It’s a lie and they know it. 

“Try again,” Deimos whispers at her ear before biting down on her shoulder. Lesya yelps, but the cry is muffled by a clap of thunder. She wiggles her wrists, trying to break them free from the cage of his hand —his grip tightens, and his other hand drags up the long lilac hem of her dress. 

“You’re cruel and unfair,” she whispers, but her body’s reaction to his touch betrays her as does the longing in her eyes. She wants this more than words can say, _needs_ this.

_Cruel_ , Deimos will not deny that, but he stalls at the rest of her description and frees her hands. “Unfair?” There’s dark amusement in his voice despite his feigned look of hurt. _I’ll show you unfair_. He moves over her like a wave, taking over all her senses. The hand trailing up her thigh pauses, expecting to find a barrier of fabric between him and the apex of her supple thighs —there isn’t one. He trails a finger along her slit, collecting the wetness gathered there before delving in. He watches her face contort and listens to her sharp breath. 

Deimos loosens the fibulae at her shoulders and pulls the diaphanous lilac material from her body, two fingers still toying with her. He’s seen Enyo bare before many times —dressing wounds and bathing, that night on the beach— but this feels _different_ somehow. Blood is rushing in his ears, his pulse quickens. Her brows furrow and lips part in a silent cry. He devours the soft moans passing through her lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth. In the back of his mind, he hears Elpenor’s voice — _I know you care for her_ — the merchant had been right, but this goes beyond that. 

She reaches for the hem of his soaked _chiton_ and begins tugging the dark fabric up and over his head —tossing it aside. Deimos does not give her the chance to look him over before he’s kissing her again and planting warm, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach and to the inside of her thighs. “ _Please_.” Her voice is broken. Lesya never begs, but by the fates, she has waited so long to feel this again. 

Smiling, she slides one of her legs over his shoulder. Deimos takes it as an invitation and dips his head forward, scraping the stubble of his jaw against her thigh. A sharp breath escapes Lesya’s parted lips when his mouth descends upon her. Her soft moans and ragged gasps sink into him, seared into his memory like an indelible brand. Between his fingers and mouth, it all becomes too much. He smiles against her heat when her hands slip into his hair —heels pressing into his back. 

She’s _so_ close, but then everything fades to emptiness. Lesya glances down to find his tawny-gold eyes staring up at her —his lips glistening in the lantern light. He looks like a starved man who’d been set down at a banquet. “If I leave you wanting, that’s unfair,” Deimos rasps, leaning in to drag his teeth over the inside of her thigh. She jerks, hips bucking, but he draws back and crawls over her until she can feel the bared head of his hard and heavy cock slipping into her. “But I’m merciful,” he says, pressing his lips against hers again. 

Lesya grips onto his shoulders and twists, breaking the kiss. He lands on his back —grunts with eyes burning like pits of molten gold. “So am I,” she hisses, sinking down on his length until her hips are seated against his. Deimos hisses behind clenched teeth and will give her the satisfaction of control for only a moment more. He watches her hips rock —feels her take him in over-and-over again— and the sway of his breasts, it is _almost_ enough to make him surrender. 

Growling, Deimos grips onto her hips and turns sharply, keeping himself sheathed inside her. Lesya is quick to grip onto his shoulders, drawing her legs up against his sides as he begins thrusting —long, smooth, and deep strokes. He presses his face into her neck, lips and teeth finding purchase there. She clings to him, the muscles in his back contracting beneath her palms, knowing this moment cannot last much longer. “ _Deimos_.” His name rolls off her tongue like a hushed and hallowed prayer. 

His fingertips press harder into her thighs, shifting her hips up as his pace becomes quicker, harder. Deimos pants and groans at her neck as he ruts into her. Lesya threads her fingers into his hair, tugging until he raises his head to look upon her —lips parted, face contorted in bliss. His kiss is rough and sloppy, just like his erratic thrusts. 

With her fingers tangled in his matted hair, Lesya keeps him in place —forehead pressed tightly against her. Deimos moves one of his hands from her lips, slipping it between their connected bodies and rubs the sensitive bud at the apex of her thighs. He swallows the soft moan that escapes her lips, though when her muscles spasm and clench around him, Deimos cannot help but let out a string of curses. A torrent of warmth feels her and after several slow thrusts, Deimos collapses atop her —panting. 

He braces his weight on shaking forearms —sweat beading on his brow. Lesya brushes the matted locks falling before his face aside, the small knot holding up half his hair had been undone. “Deimos,” she breathes and his gaze flits up to her face —flushed and glistening like Aphrodite. “I’ve missed you.” A smile crosses her lips and is reflected in her eyes. 

Deimos rolls to the side, taking her with him. “So have I,” he admits, fingertips grazing over Lesya’s scarred back —following the length of her spine. It feels strange to say it aloud, but he had missed her, more than words could say. She was his equal, his other half, and his strength, and his only weakness. “But we’re together again.” Even if were only for a night —that was all they had ever been guaranteed in this life anyway.

With his face illuminated by the warm glow of dying lanterns, Lesya can see the dark shadows around his eyes and just how tired he is. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” Deimos does not reply, but his silence is as good as any answer. She follows the scar on his cheek with a finger and moves closer —his arms slip around her waist and tighten. “Sleep,” Lesya whispers, softly kissing him, “I’ll protect you.”

* * *

BY MORNING, THE rain has ceased, but dark clouds linger over Korinth. Lesya rolls over and collides with something warm. An arm tightens around her waist. “Stop moving,” comes a rough voice, muffled by pillows. She shifts again, brushing matted locks from his face. Deimos turns onto his side and stares at her —she’s a glorious sight to behold. Copper hair tangled, nipples red and peaked, his seed dried on her thighs. There are two purple marks at the base of her neck she won’t be able to hide. 

He runs the back of his hand over her cheek, sighing. It’d been so long since he woke up next to her, so long since they’d both had a night’s sleep uninterrupted by memories of the past. She scoots closer and Deimos wraps his arms around her, rolling so that she lay atop him. Leaning forward, she kisses him —her hands splayed over the flat planes of his chest marred with scars. This is yet another moment she could live in forever, but the breeze calls her name. “I have to go,” Lesya mumbles. The _Adrestia_ is scheduled to depart at dawn, but her heart will stay with him. 

Sunlight breaks through the dissipating storm clouds. The sea is calm with a gentle breeze filling the sails. They sail for Keos now. Kassandra leans against the helm of the ship, arms crossed —she can tell there’s something wrong with her friend. Truthfully, she had been surprised to see Lesya on deck with Barnabas, straightening out knots in a spare rope. “What is it?” The Eagle Bearer asks, eyeing the deep purple marks at the base of Lesya’s neck.

Lesya looks away and swallows the lump in her throat —there was no sense in lying. “Deimos came to me last night,” she answers in a shaky voice. Her cheeks turn a soft shade a pink. Kass has never seen the disgraced champion flushed or at a loss of words. 

“Did he say anything?” Part of her hopes there will be another clue, another letter to lead them closer to her mother or another Cultist. Judging by Lesya’s odd behavior, she imagines not much was spoken between them. Kass shakes her head, ridding the thoughts from her mind —she does not care about what transpires between her brother and friend in the dark of night, only finding her mother. 

Lesya shakes her head. “Nothing that aids in our search,” she answers. There is something else reflecting in her laurel eyes —melancholy and longing. It is a look Kassandra has seen before when wives send their husbands to war, fearing they will never see their beloved again. 

_She did not wish to leave him_ , Kass realizes. “You love him,” she notes quietly so others would not hear. Lesya turns to the _misthios_ —her expression hollow like she does not know what Kass is talking about. _Love is weakness_ Chrysis said, indoctrinating the belief through pain to all her children. _Love will make you weak_. 

Tears prick at the corner of her eyes and slip down her cheeks. Lesya steps to the side of the _Adrestia_ and watches Korinthia fade into the horizon. Splinters dig into her palms when she grips onto the railing, hoping the fleeting pain will be enough to distract her from the sinking feeling in her chest that Kassandra is right. “I don’t know that I’m capable of love,” Lesya breathes, but deep down she knows there is no other way to describe her feelings for Deimos. _I love him_. 


	22. Reunions and Hushed Whispers

A BIREME FLANKS the _Adrestia_ slowing the escape from a three-masted pirate war galley quickly approaching. Confrontation is inevitable and the crew is already exhausted. It had been seven days since they parted Korinth and still another two days lay ahead before reaching Keos. The seas had not been kind. “We can’t shake them, Kassandra!” Barnabas shouts, adding his weight to help Reza push against the rudder in an attempt to veer off to the left.

The Eagle Bearer grips onto the railing at the helm, swaying with the unsteady seas and collisions with the accosting bireme —she is the commander of the vessel but does not feel it now. This is only her second true naval battle. Lesya scales the rigging. “ _Keleustes_!” She calls with the rage of Ares. “Oars out and heave left!” Tens of oars extend out and down into the water, pushing them forward and to the left with Barnabas and Reza at the rudder. The fast, rhythmic beat of the _auletes_ ’ drum resonates in her chest, echoing the beat of her heart. Slowly, then with a great burst, the _Adrestia_ pulls away from the bireme —granting an opening to strike.

“Bow!” She shouts, jumping from the rigging and plucking several arrows from a barrel next to the brazier trough. Philoetios throws an olive bow to her at the same time she catches it, Lesya turns to the side —a lucky spear throw cutting through the air in front of her and splashing into the water. The cloth-wrapped arrow catches flames once she touches the oil-soaked rag to the lit brazier. Drawing back the nocked arrow, she shoots for the dark sail. Fire catches and spreads out in all directions, quickly engulfing the flax sail. Lighting another arrow, she eyes a stack of clay jars at the stern —filled with oil— and takes aim though it appears she is firing into the sun.

A moment passes where everyone aboard holds their breath, losing track of the flaming arrow against the sky. A torrent of flame and screams erupts —the arrow had found its mark. Cries of victory erupt across the deck, but the fight is not over, and the drums of the war galley make that clear. The three-masted ship bears black sails neither Lesya nor Kassandra have seen before, but Barnabas recognizes the rearing, red ram with a serpent tongue as the colors of Pirate Island. A ship under the command of Xenia —the pirate Kassandra seeks an audience with.

Both triremes are on a path of collision. Impact is unavoidable. “Brace!” Barnabas cries. Deckhands lower into a crouch, gripping onto the rope running the length of the deck. The _Adrestia_ rocks to the side —splinters of wood exploding into the air. Before the ship steadies itself, Lesya is charging —shouting, she throws herself into the air, over the churning abyss, and onto the war galley, duel blades drawn.

Rising, she thrusts one blade up through a man’s jaw as he approaches —blood sluices down the fuller, over her hand— and throws the other though her focus is on the captain. It finds an opening in the eye-sight of a bronze helmet and the wearer tumbles back. Lesya moves in a fury of copper hair and blood. Wrenching a spear free from the belly of a corpse with a trail of entrails, she singles out the lone deckhand standing near the captain and hurls it toward the man. The spear hammers into his chest —blood and bile gurgling from his mouth before collapsing. Behind her, she can hear Kassandra fighting too.

The captain levels his _kopis_ , not giving her the opportunity to strike first. She blocks the blow from the captain and kicks him in the gut, sending him reeling back into the steps leading to the _kybernetes_ ’ chair. He looks up as she approaches and the color drains from his face —the pirate had only known one person in all of Hellas to have copper hair and laurel eyes. Lesya kicks the sword from his hand and pins the captain in place with her foot, the point of her blade pressing into his throat. He swallows hard and weighs what could be his last words carefully. “Lesya?” The captain asks, his voice hardly a whisper.

Lesya retracts her blade and staggers back as though she's taken a severe blow to the stomach. “Tundareos,” she breathes, placing the bright blue eyes and sandy brown hair from the boy she had once known to the man standing before her. Tundareos’ smile grows. He left Athens as a boy of eleven —a stowaway on a merchant vessel— intent on finding his sister. After years of searching, the gods saw fit to bring them together alas.

He lifts his hand to her cheek, laughing. “You–“ Tundareos skims over her freckled face, still in disbelief “–you’re alive.” She nods. The gods had taught her to survive, though it had come at a cost. Her brother engulfs her in his arms, holding her tight and exultant to know his own hardships had not been in vain. Lesya loosely clutches the back of his poor-fitting linothorax armor.

Stepping back, Tundareos takes in the destruction and blood, letting out a deep sigh that dampens his spirits —he had fought alongside many of the fallen for years. “Xenia won’t be happy to hear she’s lost more men.” The seas had become more treacherous since the war began between Sparta and Athens, even for pirates.

Kassandra overhears the mention of the pirate commander and approaches. “You know Xenia?” The _misthios_ asks, returning the broken spear of Leonidas to the sheath on her quiver. “Kassandra seeks an audience with her,” Lesya adds, “she’s in the market for information.”

Tundareos looks over the Eagle Bearer then back to his sister. “I can vouch for you,” he decides, “this can just be a misunderstanding.” After all, neither party had known the other before the collision. Lesya’s lips kink into a smile and Kass lets out a slow breath of relief.

The war galley is called the _Ippalkimon_ and is one of the finest ships under Xenia’s command. Now there are not enough men to bring the trireme back to port. Lesya and Tundareos secure several long ropes together, tying them to the stern of the _Adrestia_ and bow of the _Ippalkimon_. They will see Tundareos and what remains of his crew back to Keos safely, though towing the pirate trireme will slow their journey by several days.

* * *

ONE OF THE Cultists throws down an iron poker—cold and bent. His face set in a grim line behind the painted ivory mask. Deimos had delivered word of the brute’s failure in Korinth. His sister and Lesya had done their damage and fled before he arrived. “The Monger failed,” he tells the gathering, a wave of grumbling displeasure spreads through them. None realize Deimos listens in the labyrinth of tunnels above the great bronze serpent.

All others in the dark chamber stare at the iron rod, most are in a state of incredulity. “He was the strongest of us,” one dares speak. “The strongest of arm, perhaps,” another muses, “but not of mind.” The Monger was not a skilled tactician or orator, relying on brute strength and fear to keep Korinthia under his yoke for so long. With his death, the Cult had lost sway over the land and people that would not be easily reclaimed.

“Do you forget we have another,” a third figure says with a soft, feminine voice, “fiercer than the Monger, with sharp wits?” She speaks of Deimos —Chrysis’ beloved champion and their greatest weapon. It had been far too long since they put him to use.

The first to speak answers in a low, grating voice. “Deimos is not truly one of us though, is he?” The grandson of Leonidas would never be a true member of their ranks for the blood flowing through his veins. There is a reason he could use the artifact and harness the full power of the Damoklean sword —they raised him to believe himself a demigod, a lie planted from a seed of truth. “He is unpredictable,” the Cultist spits, “like a rabid dog as Kleon said before.”

“Exactly,” says the soft-spoken Cultist, “this is our opportunity to use him to the greatest effect. Or replace him with another.” There was always the sister —if she were to be captured, they could persuade her to see the light of Kosmos and embrace order. “Rumors say she will head to Athens to seek the wisdom of Perikles and Aspasia. Though there’s also whispers she sails for Keos.” Nyx casts a wide shadow across Hellas, few things slip past the Sage of Komos’ eyes.

“Athens?” says another, uncertain as the rest fall silent —the last time Deimos was in Athens they lost Leandros. It had taken weeks to regain what they had lost with his demise.

Nyx nods. “Send him to Athens,” she commends. There were rumors of sickness spreading in the city too. It was likely they would not find another opportunity like this. “Perikles has been a thorn in our foot for too long. Kassandra cannot defeat him.” The others rumbled their agreements in unison. “Nobody can.” But Nyx has forgotten about Deimos’ only weakness, one that is just as ferocious as him in battle.

A twisted Cultist with a hunchback takes a step forward. “What about her?” the airy voice queries. He had not forgotten about Enyo. “ _She_ is the only one who can best him and she sails with the sister.”

Grumbles pass through the gathering. Kleon steps forward —his twisted smile hidden behind the grinning, weeping mask. “He will not fight her, though.” He knows Deimos and Enyo will do whatever it takes to protect one another, even now. “The orders will be delivered. Our champion will sail for Athens.” None dare object.

Four of the Cultists leave the chamber and remaining masked figures circle the golden artifact and speak quietly amongst one another. The lone lamp in the center casting their shadows on the chamber walls —titanic, crooked, inhuman. “Deimos failed again in Korinth,” one speaks —so low that Deimos can hardly hear them from his position above. “He’s served his purpose. He is strong, yes, but he thrashes like a bull now that she is gone.” There is a pause as all but one of the figures nods. “You think he will stay in Athens?” _He will seek her out again, as he did in Korinth_ but that is not spoken aloud.

“He is still valuable to us,” another snaps. “He will return to our heel when we call him and gods willing, he will bring Enyo and his sister to us.” With Enyo back at Deimos’ side and the sister under their control too, no one would stand in their way. Footsteps echo through the cave. The Cultists look up. Their masks are already locked in unsettling grins, but behind them, each of the Cultists mimics the expression of their masks as the old messenger comes in and slides to one knee —panting.


	23. A Brother's Promise

DEIMOS ROARS WHEN he enters the villa in Phokis, knocking over a weapons rack in the courtyard —chest heaving in his rage. Everything was predicated on a _lie_. He shouts again, lashing out at the cold, iron brazier. It topples to the tiled floor, spreading ash and coal over the white stone slabs. The words of the Cultists play over in his mind. Tightening the laces of his cuirass, Deimos sets his mind on finding Lesya —he does not know what he will say, nor if he will be able to tell her she is right. He just knows he _needs_ to see her. Sliding the Damoklean sword into the sheath on his hip, Deimos sets off to Kirrha with fury and cold determination. 

Kirrha’s Harbor is always bustling with merchant ships —pilgrims who come to seek the wisdom of the Pythia. Among them is a trireme with three masts, a gilded figurehead, dark Tyrian red sails. The vessel once belonged to Elpenor, though now it fully belongs to the Cult. The _Areion_ remains a fine ship. “Deimos!” Labdakos exclaims, the captain had not expected to see the champion so soon after Kleon’s messenger departed. 

“Prepare the ship,” Deimos announces, ascending the short staircase to the helm of the trireme. Labdakos barks orders at the crew and they bustle around the deck, securing lines and arranging the barrels of freshly fletched arrows. The horizon is dark, mimicking the rages storm within his heart and mind. 

The captain stands behind his chair, hand resting on the carved back. He knows something is wrong —that Deimos is not falling in line with the given orders. “Where do we sail?” Labdakos asks. 

“Keos,” Deimos answers. He will sail to where Lesya is, or at least where she is rumored to be. 

“But Kleon’s orders–” Labdakos trails off —a fool to fear Kleon more than the unhinged demigod before him. Deimos seizes the captain by the neck, fingers tightening around his throat until his pitiful cries for air are nigh silent wheezes. “Fuck his orders,” Deimos spits, throwing the captain back to the deck. “Take me to Keos or I’ll see the sharks have their bellies filled.” It is not so much a threat as it is a promise. 

Labdakos dips his head low, hand rubbing the tender places of his neck. “Of course, champion.” But the appeasement is insincere. Kleon has paid enough to sail the champion to Athens regardless of the champion’s wishes to travel to the Pirate Islands. Deimos can tell the captain’s loyalty no longer lies with him. He places his hand on the back of the Labdakos’ head, forcing him to his knees, then twists to the left with the other —then a little farther. Deimos does not even strain and with a quick, final jerk there is a _crack_ and the captain’s head snaps around to face backward. Stepping back, the Labdakos’ head loosely rolls back to the front, then lolls —his neck hanging at an angle with white bones poking through the skin, leaking scarlet blood. 

The body flops forward onto the deck. Deimos looks at the frightened deckhands and the lieutenant of the vessel —he steps toward the second-in-command and motions at the captain’s chair with his bloody hand. “You’ve just been promoted to captain,” he announces with a grim smile.

* * *

“THANKS,” LESYA SAYS when Kassandra hands her the other blade. It had been buried to the hilt in the back of an Athenian spy. Save for the corpses, the camp on Keos has been emptied. Xenia’s lieutenant will offer a hefty reward for helping him remove the Athenian thorn from her side and it will put Kass closer to earning the drachmae to pay for information about Myrrine. 

Kass eyes the pair of daggers again —she has noticed the strange glint of the metal several times, it is similar to her spear and the sword Deimos had carried. There had been a cast for a dagger the same shape and size in the Ancient Forge as the two Lesya carries. “What’s so special about them?” She asks, though she knows they never need to be sharpened or honed, much like the Spear of Leonidas. 

Lesya holds out the blade, balancing it on two fingers. She remembers the stories Chrysis told about the daggers and the Damokles sword. Mighty weapons from long ago. It was only after she and Deimos had been named champion that the Cult gave them the blades. “They belonged to the Amazon Penthesilea,” Lesya explains —a daughter of Ares and queen of the Amazons but slain in battle by Achilles. “Or at least that is what the Cult claims.” With ease, Lesya spins the dagger between her fingers and sighs. There _is_ something special about the weapons, she can feel the difference with a normal spear or _kopis_ in hand. “I believe it though, whenever I use these it’s like I can see my opponent’s next move before it comes.”

Smoke lingers in the battered streets of Koressia, masking the foul stench of death. Barnabas had spoken of the horrors committed in the _polis_ before the _Adrestia_ docks three days ago. Pirates had taken the city by force, but a shortage in food could mean starvation and the rise of sickness. The elder denizens within the city were forced to drink hemlock tea, culling the population of the city. Merchants said Aphrodite had forsaken Keos after that. The _misthios_ leaves to report their success to the lieutenant and collect on the deed, but Lesya wanders the ravaged town. 

Tucked away near the white cliff-face is a sunken pit, with stairs carved into the rock. Pirates surround the pit, watching one of their brethren fend off a wild boar. Wagers are made and collected on who will emerge from the fight victorious. Given the size of the beast and the bloody gash in the man’s side, Lesya already knows who will in the fight. It happens quickly when the boar charges —its sharp tusks sinking into the fighter’s gut and pinning him against the smooth wall. Red streaks the white marble and when the boar halts the assault a bloody mess of entrails are left strewn across the white sand. 

“Are there any other challengers who wish to face this mighty descendant of the Erymanthian?” Lesya looks down into the pit at the beast roaming around its freshest kill. She and Deimos had skewered plenty of boar in the past —and a rasher of fried back fat does sound good. Stepping forward to the edge of the rope fence, she calls out. Accepting the challenge. The organizer thinks her a fool for not taking the leather-and-metal cuirass they offer. All she takes into the pit is a wooden lance affixed with a rusting leaf-shaped spearhead and her twin blades. 

The beast does not notice when Lesya steps into the arena —it is busy rooting around the guts of its last victim, but she knows better than to strike first from behind. Moving around in a low crouch, she clicks her tongue —drawing its attention to her. The boar charges and Lesya rolls out of the way and reaches behind her, unsheathing one of the daggers. 

Weighing the blade and the opportunity, she throws it. The boar squeals when the dagger buries itself to the hilt in its flank. A wave of chants and cheers sweeps through the rabble above, but she tunes them out —eyes narrowing on the beast as it returns its raging black eyes on her. Stamping its hooves into the sand. When Lesya rolls to the side again, she reaches for the second dagger on her back —cutting a deep line into the boar’s side, it rears up and cries as though it had already been skewered. 

The beast readies to charge again, but Lesya is done with the spectacle. Crouching, she adjusts her grip on the spear and faces down the boar as it races toward her, bloody mouth agape. Lunging as it nears her, she thrusts the spear forward and up —pressing into the wooden lance with a loud cry. The crowd above grows silent as the boar halts, its squeals of pain turning to silence. Metal glinting with red pushes through the top of the boar’s skull —twisting the spear, she jerks it free and drives the bloody point into the ground next to her foot. 

Tundareos is there when she emerges from the fighting pit, grinning —his clear blue eyes like a sparkling sea. Sandy blond hair windswept and loosely tied back from his face. He is so much like the lively boy Lesya remembers from a distant childhood, but a pang of despondency rises in her chest. Tundareos has not led a gentle life either, that much is evident from the deep scar running across his left cheek down to his lips —half-hidden by a scruffy beard a shade lighter than his hair. “You’re insane,” he laughs, clapping her on the shoulder, having watched the fight from above. 

The purse is heavy with silver and gold —from the prize and the bets even if the organizer is reluctant to part ways with the pay. Her brother trails along as she returns to the _Adrestia_ , tossing the earnings down at Kassandra’s feet. It will put her closer to paying Xenia’s hefty price. 

* * *

FOR WHEN TUNDAREOS is not at sea, he has a small house in Koressia beneath the Temple of Athena Nedousia. He pours two cups of watered wine and lays the thick-cut slices of boar fat into a bronze _tag_ _ē_ _non_ to fry and render over an earthen brazier. The supper of fried back fat, brown bread, olives, figs, and honey is taken in silence —though Tundareos and Lesya exchange quick looks and small smiles. It is the first time either of them has been with family in over a decade and had been longer since sharing a meal. 

Lesya does not part ways for the night as she had initially planned, instead, her brother leads her up to the roof. A full moon hangs in the clear dark sky, pocked with the twinkle of a thousand stars. Tundareos looks out over the sea, a deep sorrow washing over him. “Sister,” he breathes, “tell me what happened to you after that night.” He has heard stories of a ghost with copper hair, fighting like a demon —after witnessing her kill the same beast who gored countless men there is not a doubt in his mind the stories had been about his sister

“Tundareos,” Lesya shakes her head, laurel gaze darting down to her palms. Remembering is one of the hardest things to do, but forgetting is even harder. “I–” she pauses and when Lesya begins again, the words come pouring out as a torrent. Lesya tells him everything and it feels _good_ to have someone to confide in without fear of judgment. 

His face twists in anger —no one would have hurt his sister if his father had not given her up as a girl. “What can I do to help you stop these people?” He asks but Lesya does not have that answer for herself either. Lucky leads her to some Cultists and Deimos to others. The only way to stop them from choking Hellas was to cut the head from every serpent. “I’ll do it. I promise,” Tundareos says, voice reflecting his iron will. “They all deserve to die and rot in Tartarus.” A good number already were. 

Then something stirs in the pit of her stomach, rising to seize her heart. “Deimos doesn’t,” she says, softly. Deimos was the only person who knew what it was like to be a weapon, to be twisted into something valuable from a young age, to have freedom and humanity stripped away. Lesya cannot stop her heart from aching every time she thinks of him —can not stop hoping their paths will cross sooner rather than later. Tundareos looks at her oddly for a moment before he begins to understand what the pause and the rose color on her cheeks mean. “His name is Alexios,” she tells her brother, smiling. _I love him_. 


	24. One Day

LESYA CRACKS HER knuckles before winding a piece of linen around her hands —Kassandra is doing the same. The Eagle Bearer is only a few hundred drachmae away from being able to pay Xenia for the information regarding her mother, but after taking so many contracts and doing menial tasks in the seas surrounding Keos a day’s break is well earned. Kass decides to press her luck and spar with Lesya, she needs to be kept on her toes and there is no better person to do so.

The match does not last long. “By the gods,” Kassandra pants, hunched forward with her hands on her knees —she thought it would be a fair fight if neither of them used their weapons. All her experience as a _misthios_ could not compete with the severe and ruthless training Lesya had endured. She is a living weapon, whether the twin blades are in her grasp or not. “I’m glad we won’t face one another in battle.” 

Kassandra and Barnabas take their leave of the beach, but before Lesya has a chance to unwrap the cloth around her hands' Tundareos sinks into a boxer’s stance. He smiles —having watched his sister and the _misthios_ compete, but now he wishes to try his luck against her again. A rematch for how easily she bested him on the ship. He fairs just as poorly as Kassandra and comes away with a bruise blossoming on his shoulder and rubbing the stiffness away in his pectoral. 

Tundareos tosses his sore arm around Lesya’s shoulders, both of them heading back to Koressia for the evening. Halfway to her brother’s small home, a glint of gold catches her attention. She slows to a stop, gaze following the hooded figure. _Deimos_. Waving Tundareos ahead, she falls back and slides into an alley between two burned storefronts. Even cloaked, she recognizes him —no one else holds their shoulders and head the way he does. Catching him, Lesya reaches out and jerks the dark hood back. “Why are you following us?” 

Deimos spins on heel —there is a strange glint in his eyes, one Lesya cannot place but it fades when he steels his resolve and hardens his expression. “Orders,” he says, producing a small scroll of papyrus from his belt. 

She takes the slip from him, quickly reading the messy script. _Athens is at a tipping point. We cannot let the Eagle Bearer return to the city or our fallen champion. Stop them by any means_. Orders mean nothing if they are not executed. “And I thought it was because you missed me,” she remarks, feigning hurt despite the kink in her lips. He rolls his eyes, closing the distance between them with a single stride. 

“Lesya–” he shakes his head. The way he says her name is an unspoken plea. _Don’t do this, don’t make this harder_. Deimos lifts his hand, cupping her cheek —gentle assurance this is not a dream as she frequents his often. People fear him, but not Lesya. She hangs onto his touch as though it is a lifeline in a stormy sea. With a sigh, her laurel eyes slip shut. 

“You’ve never been a good liar, Deimos,” Lesya reminds him —his touch falls into nothingness. Lying, like stealth, was her forte. When force would not work but sweet words would, she was always the one to claim their victories. It was only Elpenor’s hushed agreement that spared him after he stole Lesya away in the moonlight —paving the way for her freedom and his torment. He glances at their feet, hands turning into fists at his side.

A fleeting, bright smile crosses her lips when she tilts his chin up, thumb finding a scar hidden under the stubble of his beard —tawny-gold eyes boring into her own. Lesya searches his face, finding the same troubled glint as before. Something is wrong, though he will not speak of it. “Alexios,” she whispers, wanting him to hear the name and who he truly is. He is not Deimos anymore than she had been Enyo. It is all a lie in the end, though repeated falsehoods often take the appearance of truth. 

Stepping back, Deimos turns and peers out to the docks from the narrow alley. “That’s not who I am.” He says as though he is trying to convince himself. Alexios died in the night on the slopes of Mount Taygetos and Deimos was born into the world —bloody and broken. A testament to how he would live life. 

Lesya slips her hand into his, feeling the rough and raised scar across his palm against hers. A reminder of the blood he has shed to keep her safe. It does not matter if he is Deimos or Alexios, Lesya only knows she loves _him_. “You could be, though.” He looks back at her and spreads his fingers —folding them around her hand but says nothing. _For you_ , he thinks _I could be_. “Stay with me,” she breathes, hopeful.

But Deimos knows it does not matter how much he wants to stay, he cannot. The Cult of Kosmos will forever haunt them should he leave, so he stays for her —to keep her safe, to keep them from finding her. Every monstrous thing he has done has been for her. And all he can manage to say is, “I can’t,” even if the melancholy in his dark eyes say otherwise. 

“Then stay with me tonight,” Lesya amends. Deimos will not deny her the night —they each need a good night’s rest that comes with lying next to one another. She does not know where else to go on Keos, so she leads Deimos to Tundareos’ home and points up to the rooftop. They both scale the side of the stone house silently, falling back into pallet beneath moonrise. Absently, Lesya takes one of his arms, turning it over in her lap and begins to unlace the ties of his gilded vambrace. 

He watches her, heart beating in his throat as she follows the scar on his forearm with her fingertips. Lesya flicks her eyes up, meeting his steady gaze. For her, it is easy to tell something is wrong. Deimos has never been one for words, but now he is strangely quiet, and his tawny-gold eyes hold more pain than ever. “What happened?” She asks, reaching for his other arm. 

The gathering of the Cultists flashes at the forefront of his mind. _Everything is a lie,_ he wants to say, but the words do not come. _A weapon to be used until dulled then discarded_ he thinks, bitterly. Deimos shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he answers, looking past the burned buildings to the sea, “the timing isn’t right.” He still must sail for Athens before Kleon suspects defiance. Lesya slides the second vambrace from his arm, laying it next to the first and says nothing. 

Golden light from the setting sun turns Lesya’s copper hair to flame. Mesmerized, Deimos does not even notice she has unhooked the fading white pteruges at his shoulders and unclasped the black-and-gold cuirass until they both fall away. He swallows the lump in his throat when she crawls into his lap, her hands cupping his face. “I’ve missed this,” she whispers. Lesya does not miss the days of torment, but she misses the nights, his touch, falling asleep next to him. 

Deimos’ smiles, briefly —arms wrapping around Lesya’s middle, and then she surges forward, kissing him, unable to bear it any longer. He reclines, drawing her back with him, lips never parting until she rolls to the side —propping her chin upon his chest. “One day,” Deimos rasps, a promise —o _ne day we’ll be together_. But one day seems so far away. Lesya smiles again, soft and warm, as she settles into his embrace, hand resting over the steady beat of his heart.

When morning comes, Lesya is not eager to let Deimos go, she holds onto the moment for a long as she can before helping him into his armor. He rises from the pallet and sighs, knowing he must travel with the tides. She pulls him back after he takes the first step, jumping up onto her toes. He leans into the kiss, fingers gliding through a waterfall of silken copper. 

“Until our paths cross again,” Lesya murmurs, the words dancing across his cheek. Deimos presses his lips against hers again, committing the curve and cracks to memory —he never knows which kiss could be their last. Breaking away from the kiss, he slips from Lesya’s gentle embrace. Their paths will cross sooner than either anticipates. 

In the east, the sun continues its march upward into the sky. She stands there for what feels like hours, having watched the _Aerion_ sail from the docks and into the horizon. Silently, Tundareos joins her on the rooftop and engulfs her in his arms. Only then does she notice the dampness on her cheeks and the taste of salt on her lips. Her brother holds her tight, without question —he had seen Lesya and Deimos in the night. 

“Kassandra has been searching for you,” he says when she steps from the embrace, wiping her eyes. He told the _misthios_ he had not seen his sister since the previous evening whilst knowing she lay asleep on his roof. “Here–” Tundareos hands her a rolled flatbread filled with honey and mashed fig. Lesya takes the small meal with a smile as they both head toward the _Adrestia_ to find Kass. 

The Eagle Bearer has already met with Xenia —learning her mother was once a pirate sailing at the leader’s side under the moniker Phoenix but had parted ways some time ago. News of Myrrine is not all she has to offer. Herodotus has received word from Athens, bearing ill news from the city. Sickness has settled over the city and spurred mobs into riots. Athens is in danger of collapse, a tidal shift in the war. Though she wishes to search for her mother, Kassandra knows they must go to Athens. 

Lesya only nods, knowing Deimos will be there and remembering the scroll written in Kleon’s hand. _We cannot let the Eagle Bearer return to the city or our fallen champion_. Her thoughts are broken when Tundareos claps his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll sail for Athens, too,” he announces —he may sail under Xenia’s colors, but the _Ippalkimon_ is his ship to command. She looks up at her brother, grateful to the gods that they had led them to one another. 


	25. A Song of the Fates

“DON’T STARE TOO closely into the mist,” Tryphena chides from the helm, watching as Tundareos and his sister peer into the heavy fog, “last time you almost drove us into the rocks chasing sirens.” Lesya smiles, looking over her shoulder at the dark-skinned lieutenant as she helps man the rudder. For a brief moment, the lingering grey parts, allowing a glimpse of the Attikan countryside —patches of ash and toppled stone, yet the crimson banners of Sparta are nowhere to be seen.

A short while later, Tryphena calls to the crew, and the trireme jolts before falling still. The cool fog parts again, revealing the stone towers and wharf of Piraeus —the _Ippalkimon_ docks near the _Adrestia_ , tying off the mooring lines. The port is deserted in comparison to what it had been before. There are no bustling traders or hurrying slaves, nor sound —bar the sad tolling of a distant bell. 

Lesya and Tundareos pace down the gangplank, joining Kassandra and Herodotus in surveying the desolation. Wagons sit parked as though abandoned in haste. Some on their sides with the contents spilled and pillaged. It takes a moment for the smell to sink it, an insidious and potent stench of decay. _The gods have forsaken Athens_ , Lesya thinks as she looks up at the Temple of Asklepius. 

The few sentries posted around the harbor wear rags over their mouths and noses. “Move along!” One of them shouts, gesturing toward the promenade running inside the enclosing sleeve of the walls protecting the road connecting Piraeus and Athens. 

“We speak to Aspasia and Perikles and then we leave,” Kassandra announces looking between the historian and Lesya —her brother standing at her side— before they set off on the promenade and through the grey mist. The path is different from the one they had taken nigh a year ago. The drone of flies, weeping, and plaintive chants fill the air. 

Bulky shapes line the roadsides, Lesya guesses they are shanty huts of refugees, but ahead the fog breaks, and bile rises in her throat. The ramshackle shelters are long gone, in their place are serried piles of dead as far as any of them could see —thousands of corpses. 

Some are soldiers, most are not. She stops, staring into the heap of cadavers —eyes shriveled or pecked out by crows, jaws lolling; skin broken and partly rotted or riddled with angry sores. Lesya has dealt out her fair share of death, leaving mangled corpses across Hellas, but nothing can compare to this —a dangling limbs, clumps of hair, dripping pus, blood, and seeping excrement. _No wonder the Spartans abandoned the siege_. Too many people cramped within the walls had cleared the way for the pestilence to rise and ravish the denizens and those fleeing to safety from the countryside. 

The path of death does not diminish as they near the _agora_ —the stench of burning flesh and hair is heavy in the air, as is dark smoke. Lesya watches as men and women shuffle past with cloths on their faces, bringing fresh dead to add to the piles —one of them drops the body of a young girl and staggers away, sobbing. 

A troop of hoplites march by, pushing the sick aside. “Kleon,” a woman starts, straightening after kneeling next to a heaping pile of dead. “He seeks to use this plague like a lever, to make the acropolis hill his own. He’s bought the loyalty of citizen soldiers and has a demigod on his side.” She coughs, the rattling sound muffled by a cloth, and stumbles away. Lesya’s stomach drops, _Deimos is still here_. 

“I’m going to find _mater_ ,” Tundareos announces, doing well to hide his fear, though Lesya can still see it — _one in three Athenians rests among the dead_. Kassandra and Herodotus move along toward Perikles’ villa. After a moment’s pause, Lesya turns to follow her brother. She trails a step behind him, eyes downcast as she remembers what happened the last time she was here. More bodies line the streets. Some finely clothed and others stripped of their silk robes and jewels. Lesya's hands clench into fists. _One in three_ , her mind echoes —she will not give herself false hope. 

Tundareos stops before the mosaic path and looks up at the pale stone —he was still a boy when he ran away in search of his sister. Now, though, he clasps onto her shoulder, smiling. It may have taken half his life, but he is returning home having found her. _Mater will be proud_ , he thinks, anticipation and hope swelling within him. Lesya cannot return his smile in good faith. 

“ _Mater_!” He calls, passing through the _andron_. Silence answers. Gathered in the courtyard are hushed voices, surrounding a corpse swaddled in linen. They are too late. Among those gathered is Hippokrates. Tundareos surges forward, pushing through the acolytes, and kneels at Kalanthe’s side, shoulders shaking. 

Lesya stops, staring at what she had known in her gut to be true. Hippokrates approaches her, resting his hand upon Lesya’s shoulders. The plague spared neither rich nor poor and Kalanthe had fallen into hard times since the death of her _thesmothetai_ husband. Guilt twists in her stomach. She is not sorry for killing Leandros —would do it again given the chance— but a piece of her wonders, if her mother would have fallen to the sickness, had Leandros lived. “I’m sorry,” the physician confesses —both for the death of their mother and the desecration that must follow in an attempt to spare others. There will be no burial for Kalanthe, only a pyre or a nameless pit. 

The acolytes lift Kalanthe’s corpse, carrying her from the villa for a final time. Tundareos moves back to his sister’s side —watching the dark-robed figures disappear into the grey haze. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks around the empty villa. There are no slaves bustling, no lyres being played, no fire burning in the brazier. “ _Pater_?” Tundareos calls and silence answers him again —he looks up as if pleading with the gods, lost. 

Lesya’s blood runs cold, heart dropping to the pits of her stomach. She hadn’t told him Leandros, the man who sheltered them as children, was killed by her hand. There will be no more hiding after today. “Tundareos–” she rakes a hand through her copper hair, pacing around the courtyard “–I killed him,” she tells him, unable to mask the small shred of pride in her tone. 

“What?” He asks —the weight of Lesya’s words not sinking in or either he does not wish to believe his sister had murdered their father. 

“He was a hateful man who sacrificed me to the Cult, Tundareos!” Lesya shouts, voice trembling and laurel eyes burning with hatred. Everything ill that had befallen her in life was _his_ fault. It was because of Leandros of Athens that her humanity and identity had been stripped away, leaving behind a hollow shell of a once lively girl. “It’s because of him I’m a monster!” It was nigh impossible to sleep with memories haunting her and no matter how much she scrubbed her hands, Lesya could still see the blood of innocent on them. There was no other way to describe what she and Deimos had become at the hands of Chrysis and the Cult of Kosmos. 

Tundareos’ face twists in ire and resentment. Leandros had not been a kind man, but he had loved his sons above all else and that love had been reciprocated. His hands turn to fists at his side. _Perhaps you truly are the monster they say you are, sister_. He swallows the thought, but cannot contain the mix of rage and grief. “He was my father!” He roars —spittle flying in the outburst. 

“I cannot change what I have done, brother,” Lesya starts, meeting his cold and clear gaze, “and even if I could, I would not bring him back.” Leandros —son of Kalliades— deserved to rot in the depths Tartarus for the pain he caused her.

Between his mother’s death at the hands of the pestilence and his father’s ruin at the hands of his sister, Tundareos cannot stomach the thought of looking at Lesya again. He turns his cheek to her and draws in a heavy breath. “Sister,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse, “ _go_.” Lesya flees, wiping away tears, and travels down the street leading to Perikles’ home at the base of the Acropolis. 

No guards are posted though Aspasia pales, her back going rigid upon seeing Lesya enter the villa. Enyo _always_ brings death and destruction in her wake. The champion has never seen her face without a weeping ivory mask, but her voice is unmistakable —the Ghost of Kosmos. “Leave us,” Aspasia tells Sokrates and the others taking shelter in a calm, commanding voice. They leave in silence, dispersing into several rooms with lowered heads. 

“You fucking snake,” she hisses, closing the distance between them in three strides and seizing the _hetaera_ by the neck. Fear flashes in Aspasia’s amber eyes —there is no one here who can save her should the disgraced champion choose to act. Lesya squeezes harder. 

“She’s different!” Aspasia gasps, speaking of Kassandra as her hands wrap around Lesya’s wrist. “Not like Deimos,” she pauses, straining for breath, “or _you_.” Lesya’s face contorts, her grip tightening for a second more before she lets the _hetaera_ go with a shove —sending her to the ground. Her hand goes to her neck, rubbing the tender flesh. Aspasia looks up at the weapon she helped create, a weapon that could still be put to use. “See me safely to the Parthenon,” she requests, but Lesya just laughs. 

“You trust me not to hand you over to the mob?” Kleon stirs the mobs to riots —many of them want to see Perikles’ head mounted above the city gates for his inaction against Sparta. Blaming him for the rise of this pestilence that had claimed both young and old alike. It would be easy to give Aspasia to the mob and let them dispose of her. The Ghost of Kosmos dead at the hands of the oppressed, it does not sound like a bad thing to Lesya. 

Her amber eyes narrow. “I trust you not to betray Kassandra,” she says, rising to her feet. Lesya swallows, after potentially losing her brother, she is not willing to risk the loss of a friend for vengeance.

* * *

THE EAGLE BEARER joins them on the steps of the great temple, tears streaking her face. _Phoibe_. It is all cut short by a ragged cry from behind the great wooden doors. Kassandra and Leysa push them open just as Deimos sinks to a crouch and wraps a mighty arm around Perikles’ neck. 

He looks up, meeting the eyes of his sister, Aspasia, Hippokrates, Sokrates, and Lesya. “I’m going to destroy everything you ever created,” he whispers in Perikles’ ear, placing his blade edge on the Athenian general’s neck. Deimos’ arm jerks. Aspasia cries out and lurches forward, stopped by Sokrates. The Eagle Bearer looks to the side grimacing as blood spouts and soaks Perikles’ robes —his wan body turning grey in a trice. Lesya’s gaze burns into him with all the grief of the day rising in her gut. Deimos releases the corpse and stands, his white-and-gold armor streaked with blood. “Stay out of my way,” he hisses, flicking off the blood dripping from his sword. 

The handful of masked men accompanying him advance, but Lesya slips away to pursue Deimos, confident Kassandra would be able to dispatch the remaining guards with ease. He is halfway down the marble steps of the Acropolis Sanctuary —armor glinting in the moonrise. “Deimos!” She shouts and his shoulders tense. “Stop!” Now her voice is baleful. 

He turns, unsheathing the Damoklean sword and levels it toward Lesya as she nears him with her own daggers drawn. “You need to stay out of my way, too,” he growls. She ignores him —knocking him back with a powerful kick. _He has to be stopped_. Lesya spins out of his advance but does not react quickly enough to block his elbow from colliding with her jaw. She spits blood and drags the back of her hand across her busted lip. 

“You’ve gotten slow,” he remarks, coming for her again. He swings his sword and the tip streaks down her shoulder and lower back, slashing open her leathers and tearing through her tricep —her side and arm suddenly hot with blood. She cries out and staggers backward, but levels her blades again, knowing she has endured worse pains than this. Deimos clenches his jaw as he eyes the blood sluicing down her leg. “Don’t do this,” he rasps —if they cross blades again, he might not be able to stop. 

She steps forward again, jabbing the point of her blade at his thigh and narrowly missing. He lashes his blade in a flurry of quick swipes and it is all she can do to parry them. There’s a moment’s opening and she sees a weak point at his knee and calf. Lesya stabs out, but like a viper’s tongue, he strikes downward, blocking the cut, and flicks his blade up, slicing across her face. Blood and sweat sting her eyes —her strength ebbs away. 

The blades in her hands clatter against the stone and then she is falling. The pale stone around them is painted with splotches of bright red. He watches, aghast this has been his own doing. “No,” Deimos utters. Sheathing his sword, he kneels and scoops her into his arms. She whimpers. “Lesya,” he breathes, stroking over the bloody cut at her hairline —he hadn’t meant for it to go so far. Her eyes are wide, staring up at him but unfocused.

He takes her to Hermippos’ residence —the air is thick with burning herbs and sweet incense to mask the scent of death. Deimos threatens to cut out the Cultist’s tongue if he speaks to anyone about this night. Hermippos has always been cowardly and Deimos uses the man’s fear to his advantage. Slaves scuttle in and out of the bedchamber, bringing water, rags, and a fresh poultice. 

Deimos tends to her with shaking hands, his heart heavy and guilt-ridden. _You kill Perikles or we kill her_ , Kleon’s words echo in his mind. _It is your choice, Deimos_. It had not been a hard choice. Sitting back on his haunches, Deimos runs his hands down his face and is startled to feel the dampness on his cheeks. He waits at her side almost until the morning light.

“Enyo.” That is not her name, but Lesya responds out of instinct. A pair of tawny-gold eyes meet her own. _Deimos_. His face is a mixture of troubled emotions. Pain. Guilt. Anger. Two calloused hands settle on her sides —helping her sit. Fresh tears spring up in her eyes at the burning pain in her back and side. She looks around the dimly lit bedchamber, finding her bloody armor and _exomis_ piled in a corner, and stained rags are strewn over the floor near a washbasin with red-tinged water. It is a familiar situation. One she and Deimos have been in too often. 

Deimos pulls his hands back, taking in her scars and injuries as though he has just remembered it is his hand that harmed her. “Where am I?” Lesya asks, raising her hand, fingertips ghosting over the scab cutting through across her brow up into her hairline. 

“Athens still,” he answers. An ember catches flame and burns in his dark eyes. “I told you to stay out of my way.” If she would have just listened to him, all of this could have been avoided. He looks down at his hands, numb. He had _hurt_ her. 

“You know I can’t,” she mutters, reaching for the small tie holding stained white pteruges to his gold-and-white cuirass. Deimos does not object. Instead, he pulls free the knots, ripping the breastplate from his chest and the belt from his waist. Lesya takes his face in her hands, pulling him toward her until his rough lips find hers —hands slipping down his sides. He eases her back down on the feather-stuffed mattress, never breaking the kiss. 

Warmth blossoms in Lesya’s chest, sparks igniting when he parts her lips with his tongue. She finds an uneven brand at the base of his ribcage and sighs into his mouth —it had not been there that night in Korinth. “Deimos,” Lesya breathes, her heart aching to know they will have to part ways again. He braces his weight on his forearms, cupping her cheek as he meets her laurel gaze —something about how she looks at him now, after everything, makes his heart ache too. They were each half of the other’s soul as the poets would say.

No one could escape their fate and Lesya and Deimos’ were always meant to be entwined. 


	26. A Taste of Freedom

THE ACHE IN her back does not dissipate with the rise of the morning sun. Lesya sits up and the weight across her chest slides down to rest across her thighs. A soft groan of protest leaves Deimos’ lips when she shifts again —stretching the broken skin on her back and arm. 

Matted locks of dark brown hair hide his face, but Lesya knows he is at ease. Sleep had always been one of the few times when the horrors of the world faded —especially if they were together. Lesya settles back down next to him and brushes aside the hair in front of his eyes. The stubble on his cheek tickles her lips when she presses them just beneath the scar under his eye. 

“You’re still here,” he mumbles —voice still rough with sleep— and she nods. Deimos had expected her to sail on the morning tide as she had in Korinth. He rolls onto his side, dark eyes following the curve of her lips. She’s radiant in the morning light, but he cannot stop himself from focusing on the scab at her temple and the linen dressings covering her middle. Deimos has yet to feel guilty regarding the lives he’d taken and destroyed, but seeing _her_ like this because of him eats away at his heart. Lesya moves closer and trails her fingertips along his chest, around to the long scar on his side, and then the brand at the base of his ribs. “Lesya,” he breathes, catching her wrist when she starts to pull back. 

She can see the remorse in his tawny-gold eyes. “Don’t,” she utters, shaking her head, “I’ve had worse than this, you know that.” A clean-cut could not compare to when her back had been torn open or when they took her womb. It would heal with time. Her words aren’t enough to offer solace. “Alexios.” Deimos’ eyes dart up to meet her own at the whisper of his true name and he releases her wrist from the gentle cage of his rough fingers. Lesya leans toward him —can feel his warm breath against her lips and cheek— but rapping on the bedchamber door stays the both of them. 

One of Hermippos’ frightened slaves stands trembling on the other side, pointing toward the courtyard and the soldiers who demand to speak with Deimos. He nods, dismissing the messenger, and turns to collect his _chiton_ from the floor. Lesya rises, finishing the last of the buttons on his left shoulder before picking her stained _chiton_ and shrugging it on overhead —neither bother with armor, though when Deimos retrieves his sword, Lesya takes one of her daggers and follows behind him. 

Two guardians await in the courtyard, garbed in the dark steel armor of the Cult, though the masked helms are discarded. “Great champion,” one of the guardians says and both dip their head down in genuflection. These had been the cowards to escape his sister’s blade after killing a child in the Odeon of Perikles. Deimos’ stern gaze is enough to make them tremble, but it is the sight of Enyo that makes both of them step back. “Kleon–” one begins, carrying the new leader’s orders, but is cut off when Deimos seizes him by the throat. 

“She was a _child_!” Deimos shouts, tightening his fingers around the guardian’s throat before twisting —tossing him into the altar at the heart of the villa. “Does it bring you pride to have slaughtered a little girl?” _Phoibe_. Lesya had only briefly encountered the girl in Korinth, but Kassandra always spoke fondly about the orphaned girl on Kephallonia. She looks between Deimos the guardians, feeling her heart sink. _She was never meant to die_. 

The man twists, using the altar as leverage to stand again. “She was sniffing around at Anastasios’,” he defends —better to tie up loose ends rather than have them pop up again at inconvenient times. 

Deimos steps forward. “Only cowards kill children,” he hisses, thrusting the blade of the Damoklean sword through the guardian’s chest, punching through armor, flesh, and bone. Lazily, he pulls the sword back and glances over his shoulder —seeing Lesya move toward the second guardian, her dagger clasped tightly in her hand. The guardian crumples, blood leaking onto Hermippos’ white stone floor and the second cult guardian steps back, trembling. Deimos flicks the blood from his sword onto the stone and watches as Lesya closes in —jerking her arm in a tight slash. The guardian’s hands go to his throat to stifle the blood sluicing and gurgling out. He stands for only a few more unsteady moments before collapsing in a heap. _Dike, let justice be done_.

* * *

WATER SLOSHES ONTO the smooth floor of the washroom. Deimos brushes the damp copper hair away from Lesya’s back and shifts in the stone bath, reaching for a linen rag to wash away the old ointment and what dried blood he had missed. Draping the rag over the side of the stub, Deimos seizes her waist, drawing her flush against his chest —a rough hand slips around to her stomach. Lesya hums softly, content and leans her head on his shoulder. He turns his head, lips ghosting over her temple. Moments like this are what they both had missed the most —moments to be vulnerable and tender, to be more than a weapon. 

“I need to find Kassandra,” Lesya mutters. _I need to find my brother_. The longer she remains with him the harder leaving will be, though —the more it will break her mending heart. But she had promised to help Kassandra find her mother and bring about the downfall of the Cult. She cannot do either from Athens, especially in the midst of a plague. 

“Lesya,” Deimos breathes, nuzzling her neck. “Stay,” he echoes what she had asked of him on Keos. _One day_. The Cult has no need of him for now. Perikles is dead and Kleon rules Athens —just as they wanted. For the first time since he had helped her escape, they could be with one another

She turns —water lapping at the tub’s smooth sides— and cups his face in her hands. “I can’t, Alexios.” It pains her to say it, but the timing isn’t right. _One day we’ll be together_. 

“I know,” he says, voice soft. “Where do you need to go?”

“Naxos,” she answers —thumb running across the scar on his cheek. “Come with me,” Lesya pleads, they could make this journey together. Deimos catches her wrist and pulls it to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to the center of her palm. She sighs when he leans forward, brushing his lips against hers. The sigh turns into a soft gasp when he rises from the tepid water —carrying her to the bedchamber. 

Deimos kneels behind her on the mattress, fingers following the deep scars on her back. He recalls the day it happened and the rage he’d felt finding her lying in a pool of bloody water in the Phokis’ villa. The scars are soon covered as he winds a fresh strip of linen around her middle. “We can leave now,” he tells her. Lesya nods, reaching for the indigo _chiton_ laying before her —a replacement for her bloody and threadbare one. 

They move quietly through the streets —passing wains filled with the dead waiting to be carted outside of the city walls and small piles of bodies that have been set alight. Scores of Athenians have joined the ranks of the dead in a single night. _The gods have forsaken Athens_. 

As she and Deimos near the port, Lesya can feel her heart sink as she thinks of her brother. He’d been wroth, and aggrieved by the death of Kalanthe and learning his own sister had murdered their father. Lesya is certain the _Ippalkimon_ would have departed to return to Keos, but she spots the gilded siren figurehead crowned with winter stars. Tundareos paces the deck —he’d done so since he returned to the ship at the edge of dark and saw the _Adrestia_ departing without his sister. Kassandra told him she could not be found, and she could not tarry when her mother’s life was in danger. 

Deimos presses his hand against the curve of her back —she looks up at him, laurel eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Wait here,” Lesya tells him and he nods, watching as she moves up the gangplank nigh fading into the mist. Several of the deckhands pause their routines as she steps onto the trireme, a veil covers her head, but they know who the copper hair belongs to. Whispers sweep over the deck and Tryphena stops her captain, motioning toward Lesya. 

Tundareos turns on heel, marching towards his sister, and stops before her. Lesya lowers her gaze, unable to meet his as she murmurs his name. The silence seems to drag on for an eternity and the longer it lasts the further her heart sinks. Without saying anything, he surges forward and engulfs her in his arms. He had been scared of losing her too. “You’re okay,” he breathes —relieved— stepping back and resting both his hands on her shoulders, “I was so worried.” Tundareos frowns when he notices the linen bandage wrapped around her upper arm. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, the guilt in his gut coming back, “I should have never spoken to you like that. You’re my sister and I love you.”

Lesya smiles, covering one of his hands with her own. “There’s someone you need to meet,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. Tundareos nods, feeling that he already knows who it will be. Nigh everyone aboard the _Ippalkimon_ trembles with fear upon Deimos’ arrival. Even pirates heard tales of the violent exploits of Deimos and Enyo —only fools would not fear a demigod. He stops behind Lesya, looking her brother in the eye. “Deimos,” her lips kink when she says his name, and Tundareos sees how they look at one another —fools in love, willing to do anything for each other, “this is my brother, Tundareos.” 

Her brother nods in greeting and Deimos reciprocates the gesture, never having been one for words. Tryphena calls Lesya over to discuss their heading as the _Adrestia_ had left port in haste. Both Tundareos and Deimos take a moment to size one another up, they are roughly the same height, though Deimos is broader. Tundareos clasps onto his arm in camaraderie, but steps closer to the Cult’s champion —his friendly demeanor fading. “Demigod or not,” he hisses in a hushed voice, “if you hurt her, I will kill you.” Deimos says nothing, glancing to where Lesya stands, almost smiling and then Tundareos _knows_ —he loves her. 

Guided by the light of the moon and stars, the _Ippalkimon_ pulls away from port for Naxos. If the sea favors the voyage, it should take no longer than three days to reach the Kyklades. Deimos settles next to Lesya at the stern of the ship —neither of them had ever become accustomed to sailing— but the waves slowly rocking the ship isn’t unpleasant. She turns into him, draping her legs over his, and leans her head against his chest. Deimos locks his arms around her waist and sighs at the taste of freedom for them both. _One day we’ll be more than weapons, we’ll be Lesya and Alexios_ , he thinks, hiding his smile in her cooper hair. 


	27. Choler of Poseidon

HE DISAPPEARS BELOW the deck, shedding the bloodstained gold-and-white armor —it is a fortnight’s journey back to Phokis from Lesbos with Elpenor’s scheduled stops in the Kyklades. One of the longest reprieves Deimos and Enyo can remember having since crowned champions. “I’m so used to seeing you in your armor–” she muses, mind trailing off as Deimos sits next to her on the edge of the deck, legs dangling over the dark water. His _chiton_ is a deep blue, accented with yellow-thread that highlights his tawny-gold eyes. Enyo reaches out —unwittingly— and smooths over a wrinkle on his chest. “Blue looks good on you.”

Deimos spares a glance at his attire —feeling naked without the protection of his cuirass, or the weight of his sword at his hip. “Better than gold?” He challenges. Enyo nods, leaning her head on his shoulder as the sun dips down into the waves. Wrapping his arm around her waist, Deimos sighs —pressing his cheek against a crown of copper. 

Swells hammering against the side of the _Ippalkimon_ pulls Lesya from slumber and memories. Poseidon and Zeus rage above and below. But under the tarred canopy at the stern of the trireme, it stays dry and warm. She shifts, and Deimos’ arms tighten around her. Neither of them will find rest now with the raging storm. His eyes are open and focused on Lesya —it feels like a dream in itself to be able to hold her without either of them fleeing with the rising sun. She smiles, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I dreamt about you,” she whispers. 

“Did you?” Deimos asks, brushing the back of his fingers against her cheek —tracing a line down her arm. He hadn’t been able to sleep, his mind reeling with too many worries and questions. The only solace was knowing Lesya rested peacefully in his arms. “What will you tell Kassandra?” He asks, giving voice to one of the things gnawing at his conscience, given the fragile alliance she had formed with his sister. Deimos’ hand wanders around to her back —fingers pressing into one of the scars on her back. 

Lesya shifts closer to him, thumb running over the sharp line of his jaw. “The truth,” she answers. There is no point in lying about what occurred on the steps of the Parthenon. She and Deimos had both taken things too far, even so, he had tended her wounds and offered some semblance of justice for Phoibe. Deimos had done the Cult’s bidding up until her blood painted the white marble red. He presses his lips into a tight line, but draws Lesya into his chest, breathing in the soft scent of her hair —lilac, lemon balm, and salt. “Get some rest, Deimos,” she says into his shoulder, settling into his arms. 

Come the dawn, the clouds break to clear skies, and Tundareos finds his sister leaning against the bow lookout watching the bronze ram on the prowl dip and rises with the waves. The cool breeze fills the dark sails and wafts through Lesya’s copper hair. Since coming aboard, she and Deimos had nigh been inseparable, but given what each of them has endured, Tundareos cannot blame either of them for wanting to spend what little time the gods grant them together. “Poseidon’s anger has slowed us by at least a day,” he announces. On calm seas with a strong wind, it was three days to Naxos from Athens, now they would not arrive until dusk the following day. 

“For once, I may be grateful to have the gods against me,” she tells him, smiling. The gods have rarely looked upon Lesya with favor —not even on the day she entered this world pink and squalling. But now their anger has given her and Deimos more time together than they have had in years. Tundareos clasps onto her shoulder, scarred lips twisting into a smile. 

By midday, the sun beats down upon the trireme and sweat beads on both Lesya and Deimos' neck as they circle one another like hungry wolves. Most of, if not all, the crew watch the two spar —it is a spectacle, unlike anything they’ve seen. The Cult champions move as if though it is a dance, well-rehearsed and perfected by time. Deimos lunges forward, and she spins out of the way, striking his side with a swift blow. He grunts but settles back into a boxer’s stance. 

Deimos feints a low blow and throws his shoulder into Lesya’s side —sending her backward into the helm’s dais with a loud _thud_ and _crack_. Tundareos darts forward from the captain’s chair. “Lesya!” he cries, but his sister jumps back to her feet and charges, shrugging off the impact as though it were nothing. Using a short barrel of arrows as leverage, she leaps into the air —wrapping her thighs about Deimos’ neck and shoulders and twists as she starts to fall. 

When they both collide with the deck, Lesya is astride Deimos —her knee pinning one of his arms in place with the other pressed into his chest. Deimos leans his head back, chest heaving beneath her. “Do you yield?” She pants, lips curving into a smile. His free hand grips onto her thigh, thumb running over the constellation of freckles beneath it. 

“Only to you,” he remarks, but the way he speaks sounds as if he is saying _I love you_. Fixed on them are a dozen eyes, yet Deimos only focuses on her. Lesya’s smile widens, her laurel gaze softening. She pushes off him and sits next to him —leaning onto his shoulder with a soft sigh. _One day_ , Lesya thinks, still smiling against his neck. He wraps an arm around her waist and turns his head, lips brushing over her temple. _One day_ , Deimos assures himself, _one day, we will both be free_. 

* * *

TUNDAREOS SHOUTS ORDERS to the deckhands as the trireme approaches the port of Naxos’ chief _polis_. Mooring lines catch on the bollards, securing the _Ippalkimon_ next to the dock near the _Adrestia_. Lesya moves toward the edge of the ship, stopping shy of stepping off as she turns her gaze upward at the homes and barracks carved into the isle’s famed white marble. Nestled below the Temple of Dionysus is a large villa with Tyrian red banners adorned with a golden _kantharos_ and grapes wave in the soft, cool breeze —the leader’s home. Deimos steps next to her, looking up at the city too with dread filling his gut. 

“Your mother is here,” Lesya breathes, catching a glimpse at him from the corner of her eye. Myrrine of Sparta resided in Naxos as its leader under the moniker of Phoenix. After two years of searching, Kassandra had come to the close of one quest and the start of another. Deimos says nothing, only stares into the city with an indiscernible expression. Even if he did seek out his mother, a piece of him doubts she could love the killer he had become. 

They both depart from the ship, walking in silence up to one of the main streets running through the _polis_ down to a quarry workshop, but Deimos stops —this is as far as he will go. Lesya seizes his hand without warning, heart beating in her throat. She cannot say what overcome her except for her love for him and the desire to keep him at her side. “Don’t go back, Deimos,” she cries, voice cracking —laurel eyes focused solely on him, “please.” 

Deimos shakes his head, but the pain twisting his face dispels his desire to stay. “If I don’t–” his voice trails off. If he does not return, the Cult will never stop hunting them. He serves them willfully now in hopes of being able to have peace one day —for Lesya and himself. Deimos brushes a lock of hair from her face and dips his head down, lips ghosting over hers until she pushes up on her toes, sealing the small space between them —pouring her heart into the bittersweet kiss. 

Pulling back, Deimos cups her cheek —marveling at how her copper hair and skin glow in the setting sun. “Until our paths cross again,” he murmurs against her quivering lips, echoing the same words she has spoken to him before. His hand falls away from her cheek, and he steps backward, turning away back to the docks. Despair grips him as he fights the urge to look back, though he knows he carries Lesya’s heart with him —just as he had left his behind. 


	28. A Mother's Hope

EACH OF THE sentries posted outside the leader’s home cast wary glances to one another after Lesya enters. Ikaros perches on the corner of the roof above the doorway, staring at her with dark, mistrustful eyes. Even with all she has helped Kassandra achieve, the eagle still does not trust her. It remains a mutual feeling as ofttimes Lesya feels she is being watched, and the passing shadow always takes the shape of an eagle. With a loud piping call, Ikaros hops from the roof, spreading his wings into the night.

Lips pursed, Lesya passes through the villa’s entrance, stopping beneath a _stoa_ connecting the _andron_ and kitchen —the Eagle Bearer nor her mother are in the atrium. Ikaros flies above the villa, circling and squawking. The commotion brings Kassandra down a flight of stairs, both her sword and spear drawn. “Lesya!” she cries —sheathing her _kopis_ but not the Leonidas spear— shocked to find the former champion standing before after she left her in Athens. Kass’ initial relief fades, replaced by suspicion surrounding her sudden and opportune arrival. “What happened to you?” She asks, dark eyes narrowing. “How did you get here?”

“Tundareos,” Lesya answers, pushing aside the former question —it will take more time to explain what happened after Deimos left Perikles’ corpse at the feet of Athena. 

“Lamb?” A warm voice calls —reminding Lesya of her mother. The voice belongs to a woman with silver-brown hair and a kindly face that is neither young nor old —her resemblance to Kassandra and even her wayward son is unmistakable. _Myrrine_. Her gaze falls on the woman standing next to her daughter, a head shorter but just as strong with striking copper hair. “You must be Lesya,” she notes, smiling despite knowing who she is and the atrocities she has committed. Lesya nods, dipping her head down in greeting. 

Myrrine looks between Kassandra and Lesya. Her soft smile does not diminish. “Will you walk with me?” She asks, meeting the unsettling laurel gaze of the former champion —one of the few people in Hellas who could say they knew her son. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lesya nods, stepping forward, but the Eagle Bearer watches her leave apprehensively and gives Ikaros a knowing look. Shadows are harder to see at night. 

The trodden path Myrrine leads Lesya down is the same one she’d taken to the villa, but instead of turning toward the docks —they move toward where a great statue of a lion is under construction from flawless white marble. A tribute to Leonidas and defiance against the Delian League, who claim control over the island. She stops beneath the half-shaped mane and sits on a massive paw, clasping her hands together in her lap. 

“Kassandra tells me you know my son,” she starts —love and guilt lacing the statement. In the moonrise, Lesya watches solemnness overtake Myrrine when she nods, knowing there is much that should have been different. The artifact in the Cult’s Sanctuary revealed what happened during a stormy night on the slopes of Taygetos. “She also tells me he’s beyond saving,” Myrrine adds, profound sadness slipping into her voice. 

“That’s not true,” Lesya snaps, anger churning in her stomach. If Deimos were beyond saving, he would not have risked everything to protect her from the kiss of the Cult’s blades when they came. He would not have tended her wounds or sought her out in Korinthia. She will not believe it, for if Deimos is beyond saving, then all her efforts to stop the Cult are in vain —but they are not. 

The unspoken promises on his lips still sting her cheek — _one day_. Lesya is certain of all the people in Hellas she is the only one who knows what kind of man Deimos is and the man he can be. “Yes,” she starts, softer than before and with tears stinging her laurel eyes at the flood of memories, “he’s done terrible things, but _I’ve_ done terrible things, too.” No one would say otherwise. The blood Deimos and Enyo spilled could turn the Aegean red —they both deserve to rot in Tartarus for their crimes. 

“You love him,” Myrrine notes —having seen the fire rise in Lesya’s eyes. She knew the look of a woman in love too well. 

“I do,” Lesya replies, lips kinking into a smile. “Forgive me,” she begins, gaze downcast, “but Kassandra does not know him.” Three chance meetings could not replace two decades of nigh always being with one another —seldom parted for more than a moon. Myrrine follows Lesya as she begins to pace, unsure what else to tell a mother of her son. 

“Deimos gave me freedom at a great cost to himself,” she admits. The newest scars on his sides were proof enough. “I can’t give up on him.” Lesya turns to Myrrine, hands clenching into fists at her sides and expression turning to a cold grimace. “I will not stop until every Cultist and Cult puppet knows a fraction of the pain we have endured at their hands.” They would all fall eventually, either to her blade or Kassandra’s.

* * *

THE SILVER LIGHT of a full moon reflects off the dark waters. Across the narrow channel lies Paros, the golden glow of braziers pocking the harbor and dwindling _polis_. Lesya stares at the island with contempt —recalling the last time she had stepped foot on the white sands and the reason behind the visit. Silanos’ reign was founded on a path of blood and bone paved by the Cult’s champions. 

“We strike Paros tomorrow,” Kassandra announces, leaning against the balcony. Myrrine and Timo reasoned the sooner they could rid themselves of Silanos, the better. The Athenian _polemarch_ was a nuisance —threatening the security and livelihood of the denizens of Naxos. “What do you know about their leader?” The Eagle Bearer asks, after hearing her mother’s suspicions about his ties to the Cult of Kosmos. 

Lesya shrugs, not taking her gaze away from the neighboring island. “He’s a coward mostly,” she tells Kassandra. Silanos was not a man of repute even amongst the Cultists, relying on deception to climb through the ranks of Kosmos and the Peloponnesian League. “Deimos and I disposed of the previous Parian leader and cemented the way for his rise to power,” Lesya explains. 

From the corner of her laurel eyes, she watches the Eagle Bearer’s face pinch —she often wore such an expression when hearing of Lesya’s exploits for the Cult. “They did not say why we had to do it, but now I know.” Installing Silanos as the Parian leader meant they could keep a chary watch on Myrrine of Sparta.

* * *

GUARDIANS WATCH THE docks of Piraeus when a lone merchant vessel arrives in the night, and the Cult’s Champion disembarks, striding forth in only a dark _chiton_ and the Damoklean sword at his waist. Kleon sent a small army through the plague ravished city in search of Deimos in the days following Perikles’ death after discovering his bloody armor at Hermippos’ villa. The coward playwright claimed to know nothing when questioned. Three of the Cult guardians step into Deimos’ path, pointing toward the Acropolis in the distance, shrouded by low-hanging clouds and the night. 

He pauses on the steps below the _propylaea_. The blood painting the white marble was scrubbed away, yet he still could see Lesya’s blood on his hands. Flexing his scarred hand, Deimos continues through the gateway and toward the Arrephorion, where Kleon now resides after desecrating the House of Athena’s maids. Kleon looks up from the piece of papyrus before him when Deimos enters, setting down a reed pen next to a small pot of wet soot. “Where did you go, boy?” He asks, dry lips curling.

Deimos tilts his head to the side, counting and sizing up the Athenian _psiloi_ posted around Kleon’s quarters on the Acropolis. The small force numbers ten, not counting the ones posted at the temple and treasury. He would not even need the sword on his hip to dispatch them. “Does it matter?” Deimos bites back in the same patronizing tone. 

Kleon grits his teeth at the champion’s defiance and rises from his desk. Hermippos may not have confessed the truth, but with enough persuasion, his servants had. Deimos fled the city aboard a pirate trireme with _her_. The old hag, Chrysis, had been right to call for Enyo’s execution —if she lived the Cult would never be able to control Deimos again. “You don’t see it,” the new Athenian leader begins, hands clasped behind his back, “but she makes you weak.” Weakness could not be allowed to grow within the ranks of Kosmos. “A demigod groveling for the approval of a woman,” Kleon sneers. 

Deimos cannot help but laugh, his dark gaze a silent threat. In Enyo’s absence, many seemed to have forgotten what she had done for the Cult and what she was still capable of doing. Midas’ mangled corpse in Argolis should have served as a bitter reminder of the weapon they helped create. “You once trembled in fear and called her a demigoddess,” he reminds Kleon before turning and taking his leave of the Athenian general’s presence. 


	29. Honeyed Thoughts

SILANOS GRIPS THE edge of the ship’s rail, his eyes wide. He stares at the two approaching ships’ decks and can see the disgraced champion perched on the railing at the helm of one —the copper hair glinting in the midday sun is unmistakable. The other is the _Adrestia_ , bearing both the sister and mother. Three obstacles in the Cult’s plans in a single place, ripe for the taking. Silanos imagines the sizable reward Kosmos will grant him for returning to Phokis with the heads of Myrrine, Kassandra, and Enyo. Should he return with them either in chains or dead, there would do no use in keeping Deimos and his increasingly dissident behavior. 

“They’re building up to ramming speed,” one of his crew announces, looking between the two triremes flanking the _Amber Dawn_ , a twinge of fear rising in the man’s voice as the two warships speed toward their sides —bronze rams shining.

The Cultist laughs, confident in his fleets’ ability to face the oncoming storm —the _Amber Dawn_ has never known defeat. “Let them draw near,” Silanos tells his men, “we will destroy their ships like pincers.” But a clamor of confusion from his crew and soldiers arises behind him. “What’s wrong?” he snaps at them, twisting around. Silanos sees for himself before they can answer —the fore and aft ships are nowhere to be seen, only deserted waters. The _Amber Dawn_ is alone, cornered into a blind spot along the Naxian coast. Silanos feels his confidence crumble like a pillar of wet sand struck by a wave. 

Racing back to the helm, Silanos shouts for the _keleustes_ to row faster, and the low beating of the drums fills the air with a frantic rhythm. He looks between the two oncoming triremes as they slice through the waves —moving as an ax toward his flagship’s sides. There is nowhere to go. “Brace!” Cries on of his crew over the roar of the roiling water and drums. Some grip onto the rope running the length of the deck. Others move to abandon ship. 

The rams of the _Adrestia_ and _Ippalkimon_ plunge into the _Amber Dawn_ in an explosion of timbers —smashing through the rails at the stern and bow. Silanos looks up as the deck disintegrates beneath his feet with a wail. Wide eyes meeting the malevolent laurel gaze of Enyo for only a trice before the sharp edge of the bronze ram strikes his belly. With a dull snap and a moment of weightlessness, Silanos falls into the cold, roaring waters in a cloud of red. Sinking further from the promise of air and into the dark, crushing depths —the last heartbeats of a drowning man drawn into a lifetime.

* * *

RETURNING TO PORT, Tundareos clasps onto Lesya’s shoulder, knowing he must depart soon to attend his duties in the Pirate Islands. “As much as I wish to stay with you, sister, I must return to Keos.” He still holds allegiance to Xenia and has neglected his superior for too long in favor of spending time with Lesya. “Should you need me­–” his scarred lips twist into a smile, blue eyes glinting like the shimmering water around the trireme “–send word.” Lesya nods, embracing her brother before stepping off the _Ippalkimon_ as Tryphena begins shouting orders over the crew, preparing them for imminent departure. 

Lesya turns from the harbor, retreating to the leader’s villa, where Myrrine convenes with her councilors to prepare Naxos for her absence. Kassandra leans against one of the painted columns as her mother and the general, Timo, continue their discussion. Myrrine intends to depart at dusk, returning to Sparta for the first time since her family was torn apart on the slopes of Taygetos many years ago. It will be the Eagle Bearer’s first time returning since killing an ephor —forfeiting her life. 

“Have you ever been to Sparta?” Kassandra asks, arms crossed. The memory of Sparta stirs both anger and bittersweet longing within her. Even after the years that passed, she can still picture the crimson banners emblazoned with golden _lambdas_ of the Temple of Athena Chalkioikos dancing in the evening breeze. 

“No,” Lesya answers, “but I have been within the borders of Lakonia.” _And I will not be welcomed back there_. They called her Enyo, after the war goddess and sacker of cities —the Cult did not dare send her into the seat of one of the most powerful city-states in Hellas. When last she ventured into Lakonia, Deimos had been at her side and a trail of blood and destruction in her wake. 

Under the moon, Lesya lays back against the scorpion tail of the _Adrestia_ and draws a thin blanket around her shoulders to keep the damp chill of the sea breeze at bay. Barnabas and Herodotus remain deep in conversation over the authenticity of tales regarding beasts from legend, and Kassandra listens, leaning against the mast with Ikaros perched on her knee. Reza hums a tune from one of the benches, arm resting on the great rudder as they cut through the white-capped swells. “Rest your eyes, little lamb,” he says, smiling while watching Lesya struggle to stay awake under Hypnos’ trance. 

Deimos mounts behind Enyo on the dark mare, spurring the beast into motion. The autumn breeze bathes him in her scent —lilac and lemon balm. He takes a deep breath and lets one of his hands on the reins stray to her waist. Routine had guided the day until now, training with each other and recruits. “Where are we going?” Enyo looks back over her shoulder —glimpsing the scabbed cut on his cheek turning into a scar. 

“Kirrha,” he answers, lips kinking into a smile. Almost a fortnight passed since the Cult last sent them to the Megarid to quell an unwanted gathering of Athenian troops. A potential obstacle in their plans to stir a war between Sparta and Athens. After hard days spilling sweat and blood, Deimos takes the advice Lykaon had given him months ago for a leisurely evening in the harbor _polis_. 

Her brows furrow. They rarely have need to venture to Kirrha. Most visits into the city are at the beck-and-call of Elpenor for a good meal before being issued new assignments. “What’s the occasion?” She asks, knowing the Cult’s merchant of war had not sent for them. 

“Does there have to be one?” Deimos challenges, tying off the dark mare’s reins at a post next to a silver mount before turning back to her. Seeing her without armor is still a strange thing. Instead of white-and-gold, she wears a lilac _peplos_ and pale green shawl —almost the same color of her eyes— around her shoulders. Enyo offers a smile reflected in her soft gaze, tucking a loose curl of copper hair behind her ear. He could start and end wars singlehandedly and bring nations to their knees in a night. But Deimos thinks his greatest victory is being the one to spark Enyo’s smiles. 

They walk side-by-side, Deimos’ hand resting on the curve of her back as they venture through the crowded streets to the _agora_. “Samian wine for the lady?” One merchant asks, holding an amphora of sweet red wine —the nectar of the gods some called the wine from Samos. “Finest fabrics in all of Hellas!” Another shouts, gesturing to tables piled high with dyed wools and patterned linens. 

With a basket of spoils from the _agora_ , they pass through an olive grove south of the leader’s home and to a narrow beach along the Korinthian Gulf, sharing the watered wine and treats with one another. Honey glistens on Enyo’s lips from the last of the _teganites_ —Deimos cups her cheek and cranes his neck down, lips brushing against hers. She shifts, sliding a hand into his half-matted hair to pull him closer. The honey is sweet, but her kiss is sweeter. Deimos breaks away, resting his forehead against hers with a long sigh. The rough pad of his thumb running across her rosy lips and jaw. “Let’s stay here for the night,” Enyo breathes, the words dancing across his cheek. 

“And if we’re caught?” he asks. Chrysis disproved the time they spent together and her worries planted a seed in the minds of many Cultists about the relationship between their champions. Neither of them understands why it is an issue —they still reap victories in the name of Kosmos whether apart or together. 

Enyo drapes her legs across his, defiance glinting in her laurel gaze. “No one can best us, Deimos,” she says, tracing the jagged scar on his side through the dark linen _chiton_. He smiles because he knows Enyo is right. No one in Hellas could hope to defeat the two of them together. 


	30. Fatherly Wisdom

THE CAPTAIN SHOUTS orders over the deckhands as the _Adrestia_ pulls up to the wharf. Lesya descends from her perch on the mast, helping secure the mooring lines. “You coming?” Kassandra inquires, stopping at the edge of the deck. She had been sure Lesya would accompany her and Myrrine into Sparta —if only for the opportunity help complete a bounty on the Followers of Ares. 

Lesya shakes her head, biting down on her lip. “I think it best if I remain with the ship,” she tells the Eagle Bearer. Kassandra does not dwell on the topic any longer —she nods, then turns from the _Adrestia_ , joining her mother on the wharf. The two quickly fade from sight behind the stout buildings of the small fishing village. Lesya takes to the helm, listening as Barnabas and Herodotus bicker over Spartan history and the great king, Leonidas. Sighing, she gathers a handful of dried reeds and smooth, straight olive branches to fit with a pouch of bronze and iron arrowheads. 

Barnabas leans over the railing next to Lesya when the historian takes his leave of the ship. She wears a look of deep longing while staring over the water —as though Sparta is the last place she wishes to be. Deimos is leagues away, and only the gods know when their paths will join again. “What is it, Lesya? Why not go with Kassandra?” The old captain asks, motioning toward the rolling hills of green in the distance against the harsh backdrop of the snow-capped Taygetos range. 

“As much as I love a challenge–” she turns, crossing her arms “–I don’t think I could defeat all of Sparta should the two kings see me.” Archidamus and Pausanias would have her head for the Spartan lives she sent to Hades in the name of Kosmos. Even she could not stave off the _krypteia_ on her own and hope to keep her head. 

“But you fight like with the strength of an army!” Barnabas exclaims, remembering her first day on the _Adrestia_ nigh six years past. Strong, proud, and just as deadly as Thanatos. He thought her an Amazonian, but after seeing her fight, he thinks Enyo had been an apt name. It was difficult to believe there were any battles where she would not emerge victoriously. “Like a daughter of Ares,” he says, clasping onto her shoulder with a grin half-hidden behind his grey beard. 

She laughs —grateful Deimos had pointed her in the direction of the old trireme, and that Barnabas had accepted her as a member of the crew. “Nothing dampens your spirits, does it, old friend?” The captain offers a kindly smile —to him, it is a good life so long as the gods let him see a new sunrise and sunset. 

Barnabas lingers at her side, watching as darkness creeps into her expression and hardens her laurel gaze. The captain has seen many people take Charon’s hand wearing the same look she does now, and he does not wish for Lesya to become one of them. In no small amount of time, he’d begun to consider her a daughter of sorts —perhaps had his dear Leda not been taken by the gods, he would have a daughter the same age. “I know what it is you wish to do, Lesya,” Barnabas tells her, voice unexpectedly quiet. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she looks to the kindly captain. “They say to dig two graves when seeking vengeance,” he adds. 

Her hands clench into fists. It is not just vengeance she seeks, but justice for the years of torment. The Cult already dug her grave and now remains a long journey of pulling herself from the hole and it is only the first few breaths of fresh air she is experiencing now. Lesya shakes her head, her smile grim. “It will be more than two graves, Barnabas,” she says with a twinge of laughter. 

“Anger can keep a man warm at night,” he starts, recalling what a blind man once told him on the shores of fate, “and wounded pride can spur a man to wondrous things, but revenge is its own executioner.” Barnabas takes his leave with those words, hoping Lesya will think twice about the path she walks.

* * *

THREE DAYS AFTER Kassandra departs the _Adrestia_ , the Spartan general from Korinthia appears on the wharf —waiting for the arrival of two triremes ferrying his men from Makedonia. “Brasidas,” Lesya greets, having left the blacksmith with her leather bracers repaired and a new whetstone to sharpen arrowheads. 

The general regards her closely, feeling cold anger rise in his chest again. Brasidas quickly quells the need to reach for his short sword and meets Lesya’s laurel gaze. “Wise choice,” he notes, returning to watching the horizon, hands clasped behind his back, “not venturing into Sparta.” She has more enemies within the _polis_ than just the two kings —Lysander had publicly vowed to bring justice to the two demigods who slaughtered his men in Achaia. Before Korinth, even Brasidas wished to confront the ones responsible for sending back so many Spartans on their shields. 

“I know when I will not be welcomed,” Lesya deadpans. Many places in Hellas would not be keen to welcome her back after the things she did over nigh two decades in the name of Kosmos. There wasn’t a city or island in the Greek world where she and Deimos hadn’t split blood. 

His lips twitch. “So you are capable of more than slaughtering men,” he quips, letting his temper get the better of him. 

Lesya bristles, eyes narrowing as she sizes up the general. She is not a Champion of the Cult any longer, but Enyo still lies dominant within her and wakes every time Lesya wields a blade or bow. “Do not press your luck, general,” she bites, “I’ve killed men of your rank before without shedding a drop of sweat or blood.”

“I have no doubt,” he replies, thinking of his men sent to Hades on the edge of the two blades she carries on her back. Silence settles between the two, though before Lesya turns to rejoin the crew of the _Adrestia_ , Brasidas stops her with a question Kassandra had not been able to answer. “This Cult of Kosmos,” he glances around, seeing only fishermen within earshot, “have they infiltrated the Spartan regime?”

She does not have an answer, either. The Cult functioned under the anonymity of its members. No single Cultist knew the identities of the others. Though if Kleon succeeded in taking Athens for Kosmos and himself, then Lesya imagines Sparta is at risk too. Lesya recalls one of the letters she’d found in the Arbon House in Korinth, calling for Brasidas of Sparta to be deposed by the Monger. “They have eyes all over Hellas,” she tells him. “And some of them belong to powerful men who are not pleased with your efforts to end the war.”

Brasidas nods, his lips twisting. Those who fought against injustice would always become targets of the people who profited from it. “If I am a target,” he says with no small amount of pride, “then I must be doing something right.” Lesya meets his dark gaze, offering a small smile. _I wonder what will get you killed first, Brasidas,_ she thinks, _your stubbornness or your loyalty?_

* * *

KASSANDRA RETURNS TO the small fishing village with requests from each of the kings more than a fortnight since leaving. Pausanias requires an Olympic wreath for Sparta, and Archidamus wants to secure the war-torn region of Boeotia. Two daunting tasks necessary to restore her and Myrrine’s citizenship and reclaim their home. She breathes a heavy sigh, already feeling the added weight of the tasks resting on her shoulders and the despair from parting ways with her mother so soon. 

The Eagle Bearer approaches the helm of the _Adrestia_ just as Lesya finishes packing a small pouch of gear and provisions. “I will meet you in Boeotia,” Lesya says after hearing what Kassandra must do. It is here their paths must diverge, even if their goals remain aligned. Uncertainty lingers in Kass’ dark gaze. Noticing the troubled look, Lesya grips onto her shoulder —offering a reassuring smile. “You must do this for Sparta and yourself,” she notes, and Kassandra nods, regaining her home in Sparta was the only thing more important than defeating the Cult. “And I must do _this_ for myself.” 

Lesya slings the pack across her shoulder and ties off the belt around her waist, housing a quiver of arrows and her twin daggers. “Be careful,” Kassandra says, but then her lips twist —knowing what it is she is setting off on her own to do, “and good hunting.” Nodding, Lesya turns from the _Adrestia_ setting her sights on the eastern rise as the trireme pushes away from the docks. 

“I overheard you are going to Boeotia,” Brasidas says, gripping onto the reins of a pale mare as Lesya spreads a rough spun blanket over the horse’s back —securing it in place with a soft strip of leather. The general had come to see Kassandra off to the Olympics before turning his attention to Arkadia. Though Lesya suspects it is only a poor excuse to spend a few more moments with the Eagle Bearer. She nods. The road ahead will lead her to Boeotia —eventually. “If you come across the leader of the Spartan faction there–” he holds out a sealed scroll of papyrus “–deliver this to him.”

She takes the scroll, securing it between her _chiton_ and belt before swinging herself up into the saddle. Both her and the general nod to one another before parting from the stables in different directions.

* * *

ON THE DOCKS of the Nauplia harbor, the _Ippalkimon_ waits after receiving word from its captain’s sister. Tundareos paces the deck at dusk, halting when he sees a familiar head of copper hair among the crowd in the _agora_. Lesya boards the trireme, travel-worn from riding for nearly a moon from Lakonia to the Argolid but smiling as she embraces Tundareos. “It’s good to see you, brother,” she notes, stepping back. 

His scarred lips twitch into a smile too as he calls over his shoulder for Tryphena to prepare the crew for departure —lingering at port bearing the blackened sails of pirates rarely ended well. She shouts over the deck. Her command echoed below by the _kybernetes_. The war galley lurches to the side as the oarsmen push away from the dock, turning toward open water. 

Lesya follows Tundareos to the helm, taking a long drink from his offered wineskin with a soft sigh. Wind dances through the rigging, and once far enough from Nauplia, the sail is loosed and filled with the cool sea breeze. “What’s our heading?” Her brother asks. 

She looks between him and the sun-soaked horizon as nightfall creeps closer. “The seas around the Silver Islands,” Lesya answers. Rumor was the Cultists who called themselves the Gods of the Aegean Sea frequented those waters. It is a good place to start, for even if the Cultists have sailed south, there will still be puppets to depose. For now, her bloody work had begun. 


	31. A Bloody Feast

THE MYTILENIAN SHARK reclines at the helm of the _Eurybia_ , turning his one-eyed gaze toward the violet sail emblazoned with the head of a gorgon and filled with the sea breeze —debating on whether it is time trade the sails for oars. Pittakos presses his fingers into the wooden arms of the chair as the pirate trireme marked with Xenia’s colors turns in the water. The sudden shift puts him at unease. His league was always friendly with the pirates of the seas, even those commanded by Keos’ new leader. Across the waves, Pittakos can hear the low rumble of pounding drums as four score oars extend outward from the trireme and dip into the dark water, pushing the vessel forward. The _Eurybia_ is under attack. 

“Feel that wind, sister!” Tundareos shouts, mirth lacing the words —it’s been too long since he’s had a taste of combat at sea. Despite the grim task at hand, Lesya looks to her brother, grinning as he darts back to aid the helmsman —throwing his weight against the great rudder. She takes to the main deck, shoring up the morale of her brother’s crew. If they cast the right die, then this would hardly be a fight. 

The _Ippalkimon_ cuts through the water, drawing nearer, and from a spot in the rigging, Lesya sees her new target. Dropping to the deck, she plucks several arrows from a barrel. “Aim for the oil jars!” Lesya shouts, laying one of the arrowheads wrapped in oil-soaked linen against the iron brazier. Knocking the flaming arrow, she draws back on the string and sets her sight on the stack of terracotta pots filled with oil and then aims higher before losing it in the wind and over waves. A rain of burning arrows trail behind her own. The _Ippalkimon_ draws nearer to the trireme when the first of the flames take hold of the deck. 

“Brace!” Tryphena shouts over the roar of the water and drums. While the others crouch low to the deck awaiting the impact, Lesya holds fast to the rigging —ready to leap into the awaiting din of spears and swords. The two triremes collide, and Lesya leaps into the air, crashing down on the deck of the _Eurybia_. 

A familiar calm overtakes her in the heat of battle. Everything is practiced routine, even as she takes the heads of men and leaves them eviscerated on the blood-slick planks of the deck. Seizing a spear, Lesya drives the point through the back of a felled man attempting to hold his bloody intestines in while crawling away from the carnage, his legs gone below the knee from the edge of her blade. “Enyo!” The Mytilenian Shark shouts over the clash raging on his ship —leveling his sword and raising his shield. “Come to join my crew?” He taunts. 

“No–” Lesya spins her twin blades approaching the Cultist, face twisted in determination “–I’ve come to send you to the depths,” she shouts, charging. Pittakos raises his shield in time to block the first blow, but the second comes too quick, and the edge of her blade sinks deep into his thigh. He curses and throws down his shield, stumbling back. Lesya circles him with disdain —a lioness closing in on her prey. 

The Cultist straightens, slashing his gilded _kopis_ with reckless abandon, but she dips under his blade —closing in— and grips onto his arm, twisting the appendage until it snaps, falling limp. His blade _clatters_ on the deck, but he will not give up. He blindly punches the air behind him, hoping to land a strike against the disgraced champion. Laughing, Lesya pins his arm behind his back and kicks in his knees —forcing him to the deck. “Mercy!” Pittakos weeps, knowing his fate is sealed. 

“You will wander the fields of Hades blind, snake,” Lesya whispers at his ear, positioning the tip of her blade just above his eye. His cries and pleas ignored. “Never again to see the light,” she hisses, twisting her hand into his greying hair to still his head. Pittakos howls when Lesya presses the point into his eye, blood spilling down his cheek. Chills slither down Tundareos’ spine seeing his sister pull her blade free of the Cultist’s eye, flicking the ruined eyeball into the waves as the Mytilenian Shark crawls away in a trail of blood —blind. Bending down, she collects the discarded _kopis_ and kicks Pittakos onto his back. With a great heave, she drives the sword through his neck and into the planks below —a captain should go down with his ship. 

Timbers creak and groan beneath her feet as she crouches, searching Pittakos’ corpse for his artifact and any clues to where other snakes may be hiding. Lesya looks down at the golden triangle in her palm, spattered with blood. Even apart from the pyramid, it is like she can feel its thrumming power. Plucking the scroll from his belt, she rises and takes a running leap back onto her brother’s ship as the Aegean claims the _Eurybia_. 

The deckhands and rowers cry out in victory as the sharks come up from the depths for a feast —there had been many riches aboard the Cultist’s trireme to claim for themselves and in tribute to Xenia. But Lesya is not concerned with gold and silver. She tucks the bloodied artifact into her belt and unfurls the scroll in hand. _Shark_ , the correspondence reads, _the southern Sporades are yours. I am sailing to the waters south of Messenia. Anyone who follows me will be sunk. You are the waves now_. Lesya flattens the papyrus and looks at the broken signature and seal. _The Hydra_. 

“Mykonos seems a good place to celebrate this victory,” Tryphena notes, resting her hand on Tundareos’ shoulder. He nods his agreement, and the _Ippalkimon_ turns in the water, setting out for the island rising from the water on the horizon. 

With the winds on their side, they dock before nightfall, and the crew takes to the _polis_. “Won’t you join us, sister?” Tundareos asks, noticing her gaze lingers on the shores of Delos. A dark glint shines in her laurel eyes, and he knows she must go. “Wine will not slake your thirst, I understand–” her brother grips onto her shoulder, meeting her hardened stare “–do what you must.”

* * *

LESYA PRESSES HER back against the cool stone, unsheathing one of the daggers on her back. Her mark is but feet away —a weak-willed man the Cult used as a pawn in their schemes to feed lies to the Athenians and Spartans. Drawing in a slow breath, she steps forward to strike, but the cold bite of iron against her throat and a familiar hand wrapping around her wrist stops her advance. “I can’t let you do that,” he whispers at her ear, drawing her further in the shadows.

“Deimos,” she hisses, turning to face him. “He’s a Cult puppet.” Neither of them could deny the truth of the statement. It was by their hand that the man rose to prominence on the Silver Islands. A corrupt puppet put Hellas at as much risk as one directly serving Kosmos —the snakes need to be relieved of their heads.

He shakes his head. “A puppet is nothing without a master,” Deimos notes. “He’s not worth your time–” Lesya’s brows furrow, not understanding why Deimos now stands in her way when he gave her the means to execute several of the Cult’s members “–he only does the Cult’s bidding to protect his family.” Lesya sighs, sheathing her blade. The gods will not have her take another life this day.

Deimos nods toward the shoreline, and Lesya follows. She sits on white sand overlooking the water. In the distance, red and blue sails clash under the full moon. Deimos lowers himself next to her and almost laughs —the gods were cruel to bring them together on a beach. He rests his calloused hand on her thigh, thumb rubbing circles on the constellation of freckles there. “What are you doing here?” Lesya asks, surprised to see him so far from Kleon’s side if he was to serve as Athens’ executioner.

“Delivering a message,” Deimos answers, but Lesya knows it is only a half-truth. He sighs, lips kinking into a fleeting smile. “Looking for you,” he admits, turning his tawny-gold gaze to her. Lesya shifts, raising her hand to cup his cheek, and he instinctively leans into her gentle touch. Months have passed since they parted on the docks of Naxos, yet now it is as though they never went separate ways. She brushes her lips against his without hesitation —Deimos responds instantly, arms slipping to her waist before drawing her into his lap. He brushes back her copper hair, fingers ghosting over her cheek when they part. “I know where the Shadow is,” he breathes.

“Where?” Lesya asks, leaning back. Eliminating the Shadow would starve Kosmos of new information, leaving them blind —the little birds over Hellas would have no one to report to and disband. She and the Eagle Bearer could travel freely without the Cult knowing their whereabouts.

“Megaris,” Deimos tells her. All this time, the Shadow had been hiding in plain sight, operating from the safety of the fortress at the port of Nisaia —a now poorly manned Athenian fort since Sparta claimed the region for the two kings.

“Come with me,” she breathes. If the winds and gods favor them, it will take no more than a week to reach the port of Kechries. After a long moment of silence, he agrees to sail with her —if it means spending time with Lesya, then Deimos will bear whatever torments Kosmos attempts to concoct.


	32. Broken Bones and Hearts

THE SUN RISES as Deimos and Lesya fall in behind several deckhands stumbling back to the Ippalkimon from a night of merriment on Mykonos. Tundareos rakes a hand through his disheveled golden hair, pacing circles around the captain’s chair as Tryphena does her best to soothe his addled nerves. He had not expected Lesya to be gone so long given her efficacy with a blade, but a glint of warm copper catches his eye and calms his worries —though, he is surprised to find Deimos standing at his sister’s side. 

She reclines under the scorpion tail of the trireme and Deimos sits next to her, arms resting on his bent knees. Tundareos and Tryphena shout orders over the deck, preparing for departure to the Megarid. “I hadn’t expected our paths to cross again so soon,” Lesya admits. Their time together was always fleeting, and it was often months before they happened upon each other. It seems forever ago they had parted on the docks of Naxos after fleeing the plague-ridden streets of Athens, yet feels as though it was only yesterday. 

“Nor had I,” Deimos tells her, having searched for her at every opportunity, and for once, his search had not come up fruitless. Though Kleon would be wroth upon learning the Cult’s champion had not returned to Athens after traveling to Delos. The thought of Kleon stirs a deep resentment within him. “I’ve turned into a messenger under Kleon,” he says, bitterly. He is dread incarnate, meant to have a sword in hand, and stalking the battlefields of Hellas, not serve as a lesser man’s courier. “Deliver this to him,” he mocks, “take this to her.”

Lesya’s lips kink into a smile —being together like this reminds her of days long past. She nudges his ribs with her elbow. “Worried about getting out of practice?” He scoffs at the question. No one, save for the woman at his side, could best him in battle. His dark gaze turns back to her, the faintest of smiles on his lips. Lesya rests her hand on his cheek, fingers combing through the dark stubble on his jaw. “Deimos–” she frowns at the dark patches ringing his eyes “–when is the last time you slept?”

They had always slept better when together, even as children, but fate had driven them apart and the nights when the gods were kind enough to let them be together were scarce. Deimos looks away though Lesya still holds his face in her hand. “I don’t,” he whispers, “not really.” 

Lesya brushes the hair from his eyes, her hand slipping down to cup his cheek. He watches her, eyes darting over her tired features —and how delicate the sunlight dappling her cheeks makes her look. Her thumb slips from the scar on his cheek, tracing the curve of his bottom lip. “Alexios,” she breathes. His brows furrow at the name, though he says nothing, only relaxes further into her gentle touch. With a heavy sigh, Deimos rests his head on her shoulder.

She drapes her arm around him, reaching up to play with the ends of his matted locks. It only takes a moment for his breathing to even out and for soft snores to pass through his parted lips. Lesya smiles against his temple —her throat tight and heart heavy. Hera, Aphrodite, she prays, hoping the goddesses will hear her. I’ve asked for little in this life, but please, let me live in this moment for eternity. 

Tundareos crouches, eyes darting over Deimos as he hands her a skin of freshwater. “You two make for quite the pair,” her brother notes seeing the tears glisten in her laurel eyes.

* * *

BLOOD DRIPS FROM her fingertips onto the pale sand with the sea lapping at her feet. With the Shadow’s demise, the Cult had lost their eyes and ears. It would take years to recover the material Nyx’s kept and even longer to establish a new far-reaching web of information and lies across Hellas. Lesya closes her eyes, hands trembling as a tidal wave of memory breaks against her. She knows this place, this beach. It haunts her dreams, always taunting her with thoughts of what could have been. We –she can taste the salt of her tears and the sea on her lips– should have stayed here. 

Deimos stops at her side, reaching for her bloody hand —he knows this place too and thinks about what could have been often when the nights are long and dark. “It could have been different,” he breathes, tawny-gold eyes settling on her in the moonlight. “We could have stayed.” The Cult would have still tried to hunt them, but then they could have been together —as the gods intended for them to be. 

“I know,” Lesya whispers, “I wish we had.” There are many things Lesya wishes could have been different, but always at the forefront of her mind was the night on the beach when she first thought of a life with Deimos outside of the Cult —a simple life away from the pain and bloodshed. The thought brings a swell of hope. The past was already written, but the future was still unset. There was still time to do good, still time to make amends, still time to stay. 

She steps in front of Deimos and rises onto her toes —throwing her arms around his shoulders. Instinct takes over, and his hands stray to the curve of her back, pushing her closer as he cranes down, rough lips brushing against Lesya’s. Something about the kiss is bittersweet. Both she and Deimos can feel it, the looming dread of another goodbye. 

Lesya cups his face as she pulls back, bringing his tawny-gold gaze down to her. “But we can stay here,” she breathes, “now.” He bites down on his lips, wanting to believe it, but there is still much to be done before he can rest. “You’re just as disposable as I was, you know that.” He cannot deny the truth, not after the things he overheard. She was right. Somehow Lesya was always right. There’s an odd glint in her laurel eyes, a soft smile twisting her lips as relief starts to set in with what she is about to say. 

“I love you,” Lesya whispers, the words dancing over his lips like butterfly kisses. 

Deimos draws in a sharp breath, his heart thundering. “Don’t,” he hisses, ripping himself from her embrace and turning his back. “We’re not meant to love.”

“Why not?” She challenges.

“Because,” he grits out, unable to find a reason he can force himself to believe. Chrysis taught them love was a weakness, yet it was always strength they found in one another. Nigh everything they’ve ever done has been for each other. 

“Because we’re monsters?” Lesya laughs, reaching for him. “Because of the things we’ve done? Because we don’t deserve it?” She entertained all those doubts before, and yet it still seemed as though the gods made them for one another. After years of torture and repressed feelings, she will not hide from them any longer. 

He turns, face red and hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” His words cut like a knife, but Lesya smiles even with the tears running down her cheeks. Deimos shakes his head, stepping backward. “Just stay out of my way,” he spits, turning back toward the now desolate fort. 

“Alexios!” Lesya shouts. It sounds as though her heart has been torn from her chest. He stops at the strangled cry of his name, fighting the urge to look back —knowing he is the one responsible for this. Deimos wipes his eyes and grits his teeth, pushing forward as his heart weeps.

* * *

TUNDAREOS SEES DEIMOS among those at the Port of Kechries, but Lesya is not at his side. He gives command of the trireme to Tryphena and takes to walking along the eastern beaches of the Megarid —the ones she spoke of so fondly. His stomach churns with unease, but he will not let his mind jump to conclusions. 

It feels like hours of wandering and calling her name. Tundareos spots a lone figure in the distance with copper hair sitting in the surf. He breaks into a sprint, sliding down next to her in the wet sand. Pulling the deep blue chlamys from his shoulders, he drapes it around his sister and kneels. Lesya turns into him, burying her face into his neck —he can feel the dampness on her cheeks. Gods, he prays, let her know peace and love for she has suffered enough. Tundareos slips his arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders. He rises from the sand with his sister in his arms. 

He carries her back to the Ippalkimon without a word. Nothing needs be spoken yet. Tryphena guides them from the port and out to sea —she looks to the captain and nods toward where Lesya stands at the stern. “Sister?” Lesya shifts, glancing at her brother. “I won’t press,” he says, knowing she will not wish to speak about what happened between her and Deimos on the beach yet, “but we need a heading.” Tundareos pledged to help her bring an end to the Cult of Kosmos, and he would see the promise through, no matter what —for his sister’s sake. 

She turns to look at the horizon, a hardened glint taking over her laurel eyes. Tundareos knows the look well, has seen it in the eyes of other pirate captains —a disregard for life and death. Heartbreak sends her crawling back to Enyo. “Boeotia,” she answers, gripping onto the ship’s railing. It is time for Enyo to go hunting once more. 


	33. Striking Bone

EUBOEA AND ATTIKA rise from the water on either side of the pirate trireme. Five long days leads them to an abandoned wharf near the village of Dekelia and the border of Boeotia. It is here they will dock for Lesya to depart on the next bloody leg of her journey. 

Tundareos approaches his sister at the bow of the _Ippalkimon_ —she wanted to be left to herself after what happened in Megaris, yet it did her no good to dwell on the past and heartbreak. He could see a glint of something in her laurel eyes —a lurking danger that only surfaced during battle. Lesya is at war with herself and Enyo. She glances at Tundareos, not immediately dismissing his presence for the first time in days. Her fingers curl around the railing at the edge of the ship with a white-knuckle grip. “I have to break the Cult’s hold on him.”

He struggles with what to make of Deimos. A man in torment and fighting the same battle as Lesya, no doubt, but it’s the way Deimos looks at her when they’re together —fools in love, willing to go to the depths of Tartarus for one another. Tundareos doesn’t want to believe Deimos is beyond saving, if only for his sister’s sake, yet he cannot help but wonder. “Are you sure their claws have not struck bone?” Tundareos asks.

“If they have then I will pry them off,” she grits out, fighting back the tears pricking at her eyes. Tundareos can see it in her eyes and hear it in her unsteady but determined tone —she is ready to walk down a dark path if necessary. “I love him, Tundareos,” she breathes, and for a moment, her strength is gone, and he sees a broken girl —the same one who cried out for her brothers as the Cult stole her away from Athens. “I cannot lose him.”

A faint smile pulls his scarred lips, his blue eyes shining seas of hope and love. He cannot fault her for hunting those who had stolen her innocence and trying to save the only person in Hellas who knows what it's like to be twisted into a weapon “I know,” he tells her, gripping onto her shoulder. Tundareos skims the rocky landscape. Where Attika ends and Boeotia begins is impossible to tell, for they are both ravaged by the war. “Be careful.” She nods but will make no promise. Turning, she embraces Tundareos holding fast to him for a long moment before turning to gather her bow and a repaired hunting spear. 

The path to the central road spanning from Athens to Thebes is narrow and winding, cutting through the rocky landscape. If the weather remains fair, she should see Lake Kopais glimmering on the horizon before the next sunrise as Dekelia disappears behind a hill. At the edge of twilight, Lesya hears the thunder of hooves. Looking over her shoulder, she can make out the small party of riders bearing the sigil of Sparta. 

As they draw nearer, her grip on the spear tightens —heart pounding. “I know you,” one Spartan hoplite says, slowing his horse as a small group of soldiers approaches. The blades on her back are familiar for their ornate craftsmanship, but her copper hair unmistakable. Lesya looks up at the man, hesitant. “We fought together in Megaris,” he notes. Warring on the Megarian battlefield was not a day he was likely to forget —it was his first true fight, his first time fighting alongside a demigoddess. “Our camp isn’t far–” he points to the northwest “–you can have a hot meal and rest for the night.”

“Lead on,” she tells them, happy to accept their hospitality, for it is something she has not often experienced in her travels.

* * *

TIMOTHEUS RUBS THE raw skin of his wrists and ankles, having broken from his bonds after days, if not weeks, of capture. Though the ropes are gone, he remains caged like a beast. The Spartans are not kind to their prisoners of war —they make sure to keep his wounds fresh and little else. He prays for rain before he thinks of freedom. Leaning back, he grabs onto his ribs with a groan —a wound not tended. Head lolling to the side, he looks into the adjacent cage. His compatriot must’ve died during the night, the heat of the day having swelled the man’s stomach —come the morrow, crows would have a feast. 

A flash of copper hair catches his eye. He’s sure his eyes are playing him for madman —he’s only known one person in all of Hellas to have copper hair. _Lesya_. Timotheus grips onto the bars of his cage and stares at the woman sitting amongst the circle of Spartiates at the fire sharing a meal of stewed beans and flatbread —his stomach rumbles at the thought of something other than moldy bread and rotting fruit. “Lesya?” He croaks, hoping she will have heard the faint call of her name. “Lesya,” he cries, reaching through the wooden lattice toward the fire. 

She approaches the cage and crouches down, looking the Spartan prisoner in the eyes. Beneath the blood and grime and thick beard, Lesya recognizes her brother. “Timotheus,” she breathes, laurel eyes wide. Reaching through the latticework, she grasps his trembling hands, holding them tight and steady. “What happened?” She shakes her head before he can answer. It doesn’t matter what he’d done to garner capture —he will know freedom again this night. “I’ll get you out of here.” He’s seen the glint in her eyes before when their swords first locked together in the Megarid. 

“There’s too many,” he rasps, having counted no less than a score between the hoplites and the strategos. It would take an equal number of men for any hope of defeating them. Timotheus grips onto the cage. “Let me out,” he insists, “I can help.” 

She shakes her head, in his current state, Timotheus would only get in her way. “I’ll be back,” Lesya assures him, reaching behind her to free her blades. The first fall silently, but the camp rises in alarm when the central tent catches fire. Men scream and wail, the clash of iron echoes in the night. Timotheus watches as she moves, a blur of copper and iron across the camp until none are left standing save for her. 

“See?” Lesya motions toward the now silent camp with blood spattered across her face and staining her hands, panting. She sheaths the daggers in her hands on her back with her bow after slicing through the rope holding the door of the cage. “Not too many.” Timotheus stumbles out, his face pale as he looks around. _One woman against a score of Spartiates_. 

Timotheus huddles close to the fire, sipping broth off the stew before dunking a piece of flatbread. Lesya’s gaze darts over him. He is a far cry from the leader she met in Megaris. A dark beard tinged with grey hangs to his chest and his hair, once close-cropped, falls before his eyes. The worst is how frail he looks, cheeks gaunt with sunken eyes from weeks of torment and malnutrition. 

“I found Tundareos,” Lesya notes, and her brother looks up from the bowl of stew, surprised to hear that name again after so long, “or rather he found me.” Even before he was named a general for Athens, he and Kalanthe assumed Tundareos dead when he left during the night with nary a word. It never sat well with either of them what Leandros had done to their sister, but little Tundareos had been the one to act. “He’s a pirate sailing under Xenia’s command.”

He huffs —a dry laugh at the thought of his brother as a pirate. “That is good to hear,” Timotheus remarks, better a pirate than rotting at the bottom of the Aegean or as a Spartan prisoner. He finishes the bowl of stew and skin of watered wine, and as he rises, the blue-and-bronze of his shield catches his eye in the firelight. Now free, he does not wish to tarry any longer —it would not be long before scouts and messengers arrived to find the bloodbath. Lesya senses his unease, bringing one of the speckled mounts from a small pen to where Timotheus stands, holding his shield and _kopis_. 

Timotheus tightens his grip on the horse’s reins, steadying the beast and himself as he looks between his sister and the trampled path leading from the fort. Perikles is dead, as is his duty to Athens. He has no calling in Hellas any longer save for that of protecting his family. “Come with me, sister,” he asks, though he already knows her answer by the iron resolve in her laurel gaze.

“I can’t,” Lesya says, shaking her head. “I have work to do still.” She must carry the edict from Brasidas to the commander of the Spartan forces in Boeotia —and hope none of the other Spartans will suspect her of this slaughter. “Go to the dock east of Dekelia if you wish to see Tundareos–” a fleeting smile twists her lips “–his ship is there.” Timotheus nods and spurs the horse to a quick trot, leaving his sister standing amidst the carnage she wrought upon his captors —for all the death and destruction, it feels like home. 


	34. Beacon in the Night

LESYA STRIDES INTO the Spartan war camp with the blood of their brother-in-arms still on her hands. She drives her spear into the ground and glances around at the sparring hoplites before approaching the central pavilion with the sealed edict in hand. The flaps are pulled open, a gathering of three men surround a small table looking over a fading and partially torn map of Boeotia and Attika. She almost pities the Spartan commander until he looks up– “Stentor?”

“ _You_!” Stentor hisses, quarter drawing the short sword from his belt. The men under his command echo the motion, drawing swords and leveling spears. She takes a step back, hand reaching behind her back —fingers brushing over the cool leather hilt of her blade but instead, wrap around a piece of papyrus. 

“I have a message from the Kings of Sparta,” Lesya announces, holding out the scroll for all to see. The thunder of voices ebbs, all eyes on the sealed edict. Stentor —chest heaving— slams his sword back into its sheath, then spins away, stomping to the table at the center of the tent. Lesya follows him with the wary eyes of the Spartiates watching.

He takes the scroll and unfurls the message, face twisting and falling as he reads King Pausanias’s orders. Stentor rolls the edict back up. “Why was this entrusted to you?” He asks, sneering as he turns from the table —throwing the edict into a brazier to burn. She carried her own death sentence. 

Lesya watches the papyrus and ink burn, unable to discern any of the writing before flames take hold. “Brasidas asked me to deliver it,” she answers with a shrug, still unsure of why the general would trust her with such a task given her transgressions against him and Sparta. 

Stentor braces his weight against the map table, looking down at the fading rivers and hills and the markers for the Athenian and Spartan forces. What happened in Megaris still leaves a bitter taste in Stentor’s mouth, but he cannot deny her slaughter of the leader had been instrumental in their campaign’s success. He sees her as a means to an end, a tool to obtain victory in Boeotia and then discard. “I suppose now that you’re here–” he straightens and crosses his arms “–you may be of use.”

They glance at the map, and the stones huddled together representing the Korinthian fleet near the harbor city of Korsia. Stranded at sea for two moons, blocked on land by the Athenian army and at sea by their navy. “Our allies cannot make landfall,” Stentor says, motioning for his _harmost_ and _strategos_ to join them. Both men regard Lesya with disdain —each has seen men die at the blades of a ghost with copper hair. 

“You need me to clear a path,” Lesya surmises, whether by slaughter or diversion the Korinthian fleet needs to make landfall if Sparta is to secure Boeotia. She leans over the table, committing the lines of the city streets and walls to memory. 

“If you think you can manage what my men could not–” Stentor glares at her, his dark eyes harsh as daggers “–then yes.” 

Silence takes hold of the air, broken by the sound of knuckles cracking. Lesya looks up from the map —she will see the Spartan army receives the aid of their allies, if only for spite. Stentor rounds the table, exiting the tent. Sparing a final look at the map, she turns to follow. 

“Have you heard of the Boeotian Champions?” he asks, standing on a promontory overlooking Thebes in the distance. The meddlesome warriors spur the morale of the Athenian forces with each desecrated Spartan corpse. Lesya nods, know how to test the strength and resolve of Boeotian myths and legends. “Good.” His smile is grim. With the likes of her, they can end the war. “They say you are a weapon–” Lesya grimaces at his words and the reminder of what she’d been to the Cult “–be my weapon and secure this region for Sparta.” 

Her laurel gaze settles on the horizon — _there is work to be done_. Stentor grips onto her forearm before she can leave, drawing her close. “But do not forget,” he hisses, “I know who you are and that your blood is tainted.”

In turn, Lesya grips onto his vambrace and leans toward him with a smile capable of haunting dreams. “And do not forget that I could quash you and use your bones to pick my teeth,” she bites back. Stentor’s face —painted red with anger— drains of color. Pausanias has assigned him an impossible task. If the Cult’s champion wasn’t able to stop her, then how could he hope to do so? “You do not command me, Stentor,” Lesya grits out, eyes burning with unspeakable rage. “It would do you well to remember that.”

* * *

SHE CREEPS FORWARD through the fen and toward the harbor village. The night is muggy and the sky clear —the moon and stars shining like beacons, betraying everything in their silver veil. She stoops down, lifting wet earth to coat the metal pommel and edge of her daggers. Toads croak, and foxes and voles dart in and out of the tall ferns and shrubs. She halts at the edge of Korsia. 

Athenian hoplites line the wooden walls of the dock. The rest of the garrison —two _taxiarchies_ each five hundred strong— sit encamped in and around the village streets. Stentor’s reticence had been wise. Assaulting this well-defended fort without the Korinthian fleet would bring the Spartans to their knees, and Boeotia would fall into Athens’ hands. Such a defeat could end the war. 

Bawdy roars echo from the hastily prepared taverns —where there are soldiers, there are drinks and _hetaerae_ to warm their cots. Archers keep silent vigilance on the walls and rooftops, watching the seas and the streets. Against the stone buildings of the harbor, one structure stands out —a freshly hewn timber tower, upon which an archer strode with his chest bare and blue-and-white cape glinting. Far beyond the tower was the dark shapes of the Korinthian fleet, pocked with torches and braziers. The Korinthians could not hope to make landfall anywhere along the coastline without losing most of their men. 

She looks over her shoulder, eyeing the edges of bronze shields and the silver points of Spartan shields —all waiting for a signal. _Ten men_ , Lesya thinks with silent laughter, _I could do this alone_. Turning back to the town, she moves through the thick ferns and around the outskirts of the walls. A break in the palisade just large enough for her to squeeze through and a sleeping guard presents her with a way in. 

Crouching next to the sleeping hoplite, Lesya unsheathes one of her daggers and draws it across the man’s neck. Blood gurgles, his eyes open wide, but he cannot cry out —seconds pass, and then he takes the outstretched arm of Charon. Throwing the fading blue cape across the corpse, she moves forward, gaze fixed on the archer’s tower. A pair of hoplites draw near to her hiding spot low in the flower beds at the front of a villa —their muted conversations rise and fall as they pass. 

Darting from the flower bed, she comes to the tower —pitch and oil-filled amphorae sit around the base, filling the fair with a heavy stench. Lesya turns her attention from the amphorae to the top of the archer’s tower, following a path of notches and binding ropes. The planks at the top of the platform groan as an archer strides back-and-forth. 

Lesya leaps up, clamping her hand over the archer’s mouth as her blade sinks into the soft flesh of his neck. She lets the archer’s body down silently and turns to the landward side of the village. Taking the archer’s bow and an arrow, she tears a strip of fabric from his _chiton_ and ties it about the shaft, setting it alight. Lesya draws back the flaming arrow, aiming skyward and across the water —a streak of orange light across the clear sky. 

Long moments slip past as she watches the black hills in the distance —then one after another, small fires start to pock to the landscape and the Athenian hoplites manning the walls take notice. A war drum sounds in the distance, followed by the low moan of a war horn. The still of the night is broken by shouting. Hundreds of men spill from the taverns and tents into the streets and fenland. “Spartans!” They cry. “Take up arms!” The two _taxiarchies_ fall into shambled formations, spreading out from Korsia to face the oncoming phantom army. 

Looking out over the water, Lesya remembers the stench from the jars of pitch and oil. A beacon. She glances between the burning brazier and amphorae below and acts rather than thinking. The flames topple downward, clay shatters, and fire takes hold of the tower with an explosion. Taking a running leap, Lesya plummets from the tower and into a pile of hay. Over the roar of the flames and shouting from the Athenians, the low echo of a hundred war drums fills the air as the Korinthian fleets bear down on the Boeotian shoreline.

* * *

KASSANDRA FOLLOWS THE trail of blood and strung up bodies along the narrow forest path where whispers said she would find Deianeira and Astra. The Eagle Bearer stops at the last two corpses swaying in the breeze —both belong to women. One hangs by the ankle —throat gaping open with fresh blood still dripping to the patch of grass below. The second has a hole carved into her chest, her heart pinned to the trunk of the tree with an arrow and an ivory mask weeping red. She feels her stomach churn — _Lesya_. 

Ahead smoke rises, and through the trees, the _misthios_ can see a small fire with a single shadow sitting beside it. “Doing my work for me?” Kassandra asks, sitting opposite of her. Long months have passed since they parted ways in Lakonia. Ikaros descends through the pines, perching on a boulder —mistrustful eyes trained on Lesya as she runs a worn whetstone down the edge of a spear-tip. 

“I work for myself, _misthios_ ,” she reminds Kassandra, feeling the leaf-shaped blade bite into the pad of her thumb. “It just happens our goals are aligned.” Satisfied with her work, she drives the spear into the ground next to her and reaches into a small canvas pouch. Lesya tosses a fragment of the artifact at Kass’ feet, proof of another successful hunt. “Deianeira is no more.”

The Eagle Bearer glances back at the path of corpses. “And the others?”

Lesya shrugs. “They got in my way.” 

The callous response sends a cold shiver down Kassandra’s spine. She imagines Lesya has left similar trails of destruction across Hellas. “You’ve been busy then?”

Her laugh is morose, her smile grim. There is a dark glint in her eyes that Kassandra has never seen before — _something has changed her_. “Carved a path for the Korinthian fleet to make landfall and have rid Hellas of three more Cultists,” Lesya answers. A more impressive feat than winning an Olympic wreath. 

At the edge of the clearing, something rustles in the underbrush. Lesya reaches for the small blade on the inside of her bracer. A hare jumps from into the open, and Lesya’s stomach grumbles. She flicks the blade into the air, catching the hare by the neck —it squeals once, then falls still and silent. Rising, she goes to collect her kill. 

Kassandra watches as Lesya skins the hare, the silver rays of Selene’s light dappling her skin through the canopy above. Her cuts are precise and efficient —the work of one used to taking life and skin from the living, whether it be man or beast. She guts the dead animal first, dumping the offal into a shallow hole but keeping the heart and liver before slicing a neat line all along the underbelly and ripping the skin free in a single tug. It may not be much, but it will fill their bellies for the night.

Fat drips down onto the stones surrounding the fire, sizzling as Lesya turns the hare over the flames using one of her daggers. Kassandra watches still, honing the blade of her _kopis_. She wants to ask after her brother —to know if Lesya has seen Deimos since they parted ways, but she refrains. A part of her knows the darkness surrounding her is because of him. Neither of them can find much more to say, not even as they split the roast hare. 

Lesya lays back under the stars with a soft sigh and cannot help but wonder if Deimos is looking up at the same night sky. 


	35. The Redbloods

DEIMOS WATCHES THE stars flicker in the heavens above with a heavy heart. _Somewhere she’s looking up at the same stars._ His thoughts haunted by distant memories from a time when everything seemed so much simpler. He’s kicked himself a hundred times over for how he reacted. Years of telling himself they should have stayed there that night on the beach only to push Lesya away and leave her more broken than before when fate gave them another chance. He closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. 

It’s the sight of her in a _peplos_ almost the same color as her eyes that makes his breath catch when he enters the bedchamber in the villa. She combs her fingers through copper waves, twisting some strands away from her face and braiding others, pinning them back in place for the symposium. “What?” Enyo asks, hiding her smile as she notices his lingering gaze in the looking glass. 

He steps further into the room, loosening the ties of his vambraces from a day of training new vanguard and scion recruits —all fearless and able fighters, but none could ever match his or Enyo’s prowess and brutality. Deimos throat is dry as he looks at her again. The linen and silk combination is gossamer thin, fitting for her disguise as a _hetaera_ for the evening. 

Through the fabric, he can make out the scars on her back and the curve of her hips and breasts. “Not used to seeing you in a dress,” he notes, voice low and rougher than usual. Rough hands settle on her waist and the warmth of his breath ghosting across her neck and shoulder. Deimos watches her eyes slip shut and the soft sigh that leaves her parted lips. “Aphrodite may be envious–” he presses his lips against the crook of her neck, smiling at the shiver she gives. 

“Deimos,” Enyo chides, stepping out of his hold before turning to face him —fingers finding the ties of his gold-and-white cuirass. “You still need to get ready,” she reminds him, nodding toward the black _himation_ trimmed in gold lying across the table at the edge of the room as she pulls away his breastplate and sets it aside. Shedding his _chiton_ and greaves, Deimos readies himself for the symposium as Enyo finishes her hair. 

A smile creeps up onto her rosy lips when she looks at him —the dark fabric draped and pinned over one broad shoulder, leaving the other side of his chest bare. Enyo reaches for him, fingers brushing across a scar barely visible for the dark hair on his pectoral. It is just as rare a sight to see him without armor or weapons. His hands find her waist again, holding her in place as he cranes down, lips barely touching her own— Deimos startles awake at the harsh cry of a passing eagle. He sits up aboard the ship to Messenia, gaze shifting back to the night sky as his heart twists and aches at the bitter reminds of his and Lesya’s past.

* * *

BLOOD DRIPS FROM Lesya’s twin blades as she finds Kassandra to the east of Gla fort. Upon the sunrise, they each decide the last of the Boeotian Champions will fall today. With the Korinthians encamped around Thebes and across the countryside, and weakening Athenian morale from the death of their champions, there is no better time for Sparta to strike. “Is it done?” She asks, wiping her bloody lip on the back of her hand, glancing around Kopais Perch, looking for any sign of Aristaios. 

Kassandra nods, eyes flicking from Lesya to the smoke billowing into the air from the fortress —the signal to prepare to march on the Athenians she promised Stentor. “Aye,” she answers, turning and looking in the direction her father had gone —a felucca moves across the lake, “but Nikolaos claimed the finishing blow.” 

Lesya raises a brow, surprised to hear any mention of the general after what happened in Megaris all the years ago when her and Kassandra’s lives were first entangled. “He will not come to our aid,” Kassandra says, seeing the question budding in Lesya’s laurel eyes, “he does not wish to sully this victory for Stentor.” Nikolaos’ dismissiveness of the campaign to help his homeland leaves her disheartened but hopeful that her broken family can be made whole again given time.

They both turn back to watch the Gla fort burn, black smoke and flames rising. Regardless of if the Wolf will help lead the charge, the Spartans will war at dawn —planting their sword deep into the heart of Boeotia with the aid of the Eagle Bearer and destruction incarnate.

* * *

THE BATTLE ENDS, but the Spartans’ bloodlust has not ebbed with the victory. Lesya strides into the heart of the forward camp, driving a spear adorned with the severed head of the Athenian commander into the ground. Cheers and battle cries echo through the gathering of men. Kassandra looks on, an ill feeling growing in the pit of her stomach — _no one should look that at home covered in blood_. 

Cries of victory get cut short when Stentor exits the tent from convening with his _harmost_ and _strategos_ , his face twisted in anger. Neither his step-sister nor her accomplice had fallen as expected. Defeating the Boeotian champions was meant to be an impossible task, as was facing the blockade against the Korinthian fleet. Now that the region is won, he can not retain the hatred boiling in his blood as he thinks about what could have been if the Wolf of Sparta had stood at his side. 

“You killed my _pater_ ,” Stentor accuses, picking up his bloody sword and slamming it back into its sheath before ripping his spear from the earth. “And _you_ ,” he spits, leveling his spear in Lesya’s direction. She and Deimos deserved to rot in the pits of Tartarus for the atrocities committed by their hands. Pausanias would honor him well for killing both her and Kassandra —assured entry into the Cult for such a deed.

The Eagle Bearer draws the Leonidas spear, following as Stentor paces around them, his body tense like a lion ready to pounce. Enough blood has been shed this day. “It doesn’t have to be this way!” She rasps, trying to convince him their father still lives. He won’t hear it, though. No cry for mercy or plea for peace will change his mind as he looks upon the two women who murdered the Wolf of Sparta. Kassandra sees his spear flash up through the air, quick as a striking snake. She leaps clear of it, though before she can engage, Lesya is in front of her —daggers drawn. The mask of blood she wears like a wreath of victory. Kassandra knows how this fight will end. 

Lesya spins around the swipe of his spear —exhaustion from the battle slows him, anger makes him careless. She knocks the lance aside, taunting him, giving him a shred of hope he may be able to defeat her. He thrusts the spear forward again, but this time Lesya rips it from his grasp, snapping the lance over her knee and throwing the broken pieces aside. Stentor stumbles back, drawing his _kopis_ , but it is too late. Lesya closes in too quickly, thrusting one of the daggers beneath his spear arm, twisting the hilt. Stentor drops the _kopis_ , shouting and writhing as a second blade sinks beneath his shield arm. Pulling the blades free, Lesya steps back. He crumples to his hands and knees —blood spurting and sluicing down his arms and gold plate. 

The Spartiates surrounding the duel stand aghast. Screaming, she drives her knee into Stentor’s jaw, leaving him sprawled out on his back —a deathly pallor quickly taking hold of him. The ferryman awaits, hand outstretched. “You killed him,” Kassandra breathes, looking down at the unmoving corpse of her stepbrother. She bore no love for Stentor, but it still elicits a strange feeling in her chest as she looks between his corpse and the blood on Lesya’s hands, finding her expression blank —there is no remorse in the former champion’s darkened gaze. The Eagle Bearer stumbles back, a sickly feeling overcoming her as she shakes her head in disbelief, quickly departing before the remaining Spartiates decide to act. 

A blackened wax seal on a scroll catches Lesya’s attention. She bends, plucking the message from Stentor’s belt before retreating from the camp and deep into the forest, tracing Kassandra’s path on horseback. Breaking the seal, she unfurls the papyrus. _Stentor_ —the scroll reads in a messy script, the edged still wet with blood. _Your work in Megaris has not gone unseen. For your final task, bring us victory in Boeotia — a task even the Wolf himself could not achieve. Then you will have earned your place among us as a Redblood. You are close. Do not waver. The true blood runs red_. Lesya’s face twists in anger as she reads over the note again, signed by P. Another moment, and she pieces together who the cultist is. _King Pausanias of Sparta_. 

Kassandra spins on heel, anger flaring in her eyes when she hears twigs snapping underfoot behind her. Stentor’s murder could cost her everything in Sparta. The kings would not forgive the transgression against one of their commanders, even if it wasn’t her blade that took his life. “Do not return to Lakonia,” she spits, nigh unable to meet Lesya’s cold laurel gaze as she slips from the back of a horse. “Brasidas nor I will be able to stand for you against the kings after what you’ve done.”

_What I’ve done?_ Lesya wants to laugh. _I sowed the seeds, and you reaped in the harvest_. She takes a step toward the Eagle Bearer and watches her tense, fingers flexing as though she’s going to reach for the sword at her hip. “You wanted to know which king is a Cultist?” Lesya waves the scroll under Kassandra’s nose. “Here’s your fucking proof.” She presses the blood-stained letter taken from Stentor’s corpse into the _misthios_ ’ chest before turning and taking the road leading back to the _Ippalkimon_ on the back of a stolen silver mare. 

Kassandra stares down at the broken seal for a long moment before unrolling the stiff and stained papyrus —reading over the message with a sickening realization. “Lesya!” she shouts, but the former champion is already gone. 


End file.
